


Tempête de tromperie

by andromedastars



Series: College AU [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Conspiracy, Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Healthy Relationships, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, Light Smut, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Not too much, One-Sided Marius Pontmercy/Éponine Thénardier, Past Abuse, Revolution, Unrequited Crush, relationship drama, there will probably be some death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedastars/pseuds/andromedastars
Summary: this work is being discontinued and i'll probably delete it later
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton & Hercules Mulligan, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Cosette Fauchelevent & Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras & Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier, Maria Reynolds & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: College AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811689
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. Un groupe fascinant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marius meets new friends and discovers an old one

Marius Pontmercy held the key in his hand, exhaling quite loudly through his mouth. _Calm down, Mars_ , he told himself, extending a shaky hand towards the doorknob in front of him. _You’re only entering your dorm. You will do fine when you meet your roommate._ He turned the knob, wishing he knew something about the guy.

Unfortunately he never bothered to reach out or even learn anything. He only knew the last name: Courfeyrac. And that didn’t really give him much to work with. Oh, how he hated being left in the dark, especially when it came to matters such as roommates. Curse his stupidity and short-sightedness!

“Are you going to open the door or what?” a voice called from inside. This must be Courfeyrac, no doubt. Marius took a deep breath and swung open the door, to reveal a man sitting on the couch, with dark curly hair, and what might be seen as a flirty smirk. “About time, _Monsieur_ . . .”

Marius blew a strand of his own unruly hair out of his eyes. “Pontmercy. Marius Pontmercy. And you are?”

“George Courfeyrac.” He grinned. “But my friends call me Courf.”

“Okay. Uh. Where is my room?” God, he was terrible at small talk.

Courfeyrac pointed towards a room a little ways down the hall. “Over there. You can unpack; there’s still a while before the big night.”

Marius nodded, not exactly a fan of what Courfeyrac was suggesting, before heading to the room. It was your typical bedroom, although probably a bit bigger, with a single twin-sized bed at the corner. A window that was on the small size and a small closet. Excellent. Sighing, he dropped his duffel bag on the bed. As he took his clothes out of his suitcase, he thought about his decision to attend law school. It wasn’t easy, and it was certainly grueling, but he did have a knack for the law. At least Grandfather could give him that.

Another sigh at the thought of his grandfather. He, his son-in-law, and his grandson were constantly in arguments over politics, with Monsieur Gillenormand (as he was known in France) being a staunch supporter of royalty. Alas, those days were long gone, and the man had gone on long tirades while watching the news. Marius shook his head. Grandfather was a strict and stubborn individual, but he could be gentle and loving too, when they weren’t discussing politics (as both he and his father were wont to do). Or he was, up until _the incident_. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the memory.

As for the law, it did interest him. Things normally considered mundane and unpleasant were of great interest to him. His father sometimes joked that he was a 40 year old man in a teenage boy’s body. He rolled his eyes at the statement. Oh, he could be prudish at times, and had a tendency to be quite serious when talking about the law. But there was a hint of capriciousness hidden amongst all young boys, and Marius had a bit of that hint. Enough to make him agreeable to perhaps most things a 40 year old prude would shudder and wag their fingers at. He smiled at the thought.

~*~

“Jeez, you’ve brought a lot of stuff, huh?” laughed Courfeyrac as he peeked inside. Marius shrugged; he had packed a lot of clothes, and he only managed to unpack half his things in an hour. “At least unpack your shampoo and toothbrush and stuff. I don’t think I could stand morning breath from you. Or from anyone really.”

His shrug was the only response. As he continued to unpack and fold and hang his clothes, Courfeyrac snatched up a dress shirt he’d brought along. “Fancy. Bahorel would approve.”

“Who?”

“Oh right, you don’t know him. Ah well. You’ll meet them all soon enough.” Courfeyrac tossed Marius a hanger so he could hang up the shirt. “Anyways, we should probably get going, lest Enj scold us for being late. A very serious crime. Or at least, in his eyes.”

Marius snorted, before standing up. Ouch. He’d been squatting in that uncomfortable position for too long. As they walked out the door, he reached for his phone, wallet, and dorm keys. Both of them had the keys to their dorm, to prevent them both being locked out, he supposed.

Just as they were about to head down the stairs, a voice sounded from behind them, spooking Marius. “Ah, Courf, a new friend, I see?”

“He’s my roommate,” Courfeyrac replied jovially, before heading down the stairs. “Meet Marius Pontmercy. Or as I shall begin calling him,” he added, grinning, “ _Monsieur_ _Pont_ iac. Get it?”

Marius groaned inwardly, knowing that if they ever found out about his childhood nickname of Mars, they would mercilessly tease him for it. Luckily, they hadn’t. “Hello,” he said, a bit nervously. “Nice to meet you . . .”

“Bossuet! Jean-Paul Lesgle Bossuet! But you can call me Bossuet, or Lesgle, or _L’Aigle_ , or--”

“ _L’Aigle_ , I think he gets the point,” Courfeyrac said, placing a hand on the newcomer’s arm. “Oh, and by the way, he’s the RA, so be nice.”

Marius analyzed the man. Tall, dark-skinned, and bald. A stylistic choice? “Will he snitch on us if we drink or smoke?”

Bossuet shrugged. “Rules are rules. As long as you hide the evidence from others, I won’t tell.”

By that point Courfeyrac was already halfway down the stairs, and he called to them, “Are you coming down or what? Enj is going to be pissed if we’re late!” The second time he had mentioned this “Enj.” Who were they? He’d probably find out at this party.

~*~

Turns out a night out only meant a night at the ABC Cafe in the downtown region. Marius couldn’t say whether or not he was disappointed. At least there wasn’t a chance of him getting a hangover.

As soon as they entered the door, a man, probably two to three years older than Marius, came over to heckle them, or at least Courfeyrac. His startling blue eyes turned to Marius, and he felt blood rushing to his face. Jesus, this guy could be a model! Again, he analyzed this newcomer. Blond hair, blue eyes. Rosy lips, rosy cheeks. And he was . . . intense.

The man’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “Who have you brought, Courf? Who is this?”

“Uh-uh, Marius. Marius Pontmercy,” he stammered. Oh, why was he so socially awkward?

Before the blond guy could say anything else, Bossuet grabbed him aside. “Let me introduce you to the others. Enjolras, well, he’s a bit passionate and can get fired up real quick. Thankfully, some of the other members are more mellow. Ah! Like him!” He pointed towards a guy that looked very disappointed.

“I thought there would be drinks! I’m sure someone promised drinks.”

“Grantaire, that was a lie so you would come. Otherwise you’d be holed up in your dorm and would never come out,” another person said.

Grantaire grumbled. “I should’ve stayed there. At least I have a supply of booze.”

That person turned towards Marius and Bossuet. “Well, at least he’s sober. You know how he’s like when he’s drunk as balls. Oh, do we have a newcomer?”

Marius, again, felt blood rushing to his face. He hated being in the spotlight. “Uh, hello?”

“And _ciao_ to you, my friend!” the man replied. “Do state your name and business.”

He sighed, trying to concentrate over the raised voices of Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Apparently you could have an argument over tardiness. “Marius Pontmercy. Courfeyrac dragged me along to this . . . gathering.”

Said man shook his hand. “Welcome, _Signor_ Pontmercy. I’m Anthony Feuilly, but you may call me Feuilly. Rule of thumb, most people go by their last names. I’m aware it’s unorthodox, but that’s how we do things here in _Les Amis d’ABC_.” Marius was astonished at how he could switch between English and French and Italian so smoothly. Oh sure, he could write languages fluently, but speaking was another matter. Didn’t help that his social anxiety was through the roof.

Feuilly continued to introduce the group, or _Les Amis_ , or whatever. “That over there is Jehan Prouvaire. They’re a hopeless romantic and poet, studying at the Golden State Center of the Arts and Conservatory. And we mostly call them Jehan. We rarely call them by their last name.” Jehan waved at them from where they were sitting, before going back to what Marius assumed was their newest poem.

“Next to them is Pierre Montparnasse. We’ve all suspected he’s dating Jehan, but there’s been no confirmation and we’re all dying. Ah well. They’ll reveal it later.”

Marius nodded, staring at the burly, pale guy next to Jehan. As Feuilly kept talking, he looked at the others at the table. Francois Bahorel, a well-dressed French student with long curly hair and a good amount of beard. Phillipe Combeferre, a bespectacled young man studying at the medical school within the Golden State University Union. Matthew Joly, Combeferre’s roommate who seemed to be a nervous hypochondriac. Despite all this he had an excellent temperament, and had freckles dotted all over his smiling face. Then there was Lawrence Grantaire, whom he had seen earlier, a pessimistic artist who preferred the drink of Bacchus (or so he called it). He had wild unruly hair (which made Marius’ own hair tame by comparison), and some stubble. Surprisingly he didn’t smell too bad.

“I’m a drunkard, not a pig,” he said when Marius blurted out the embarrassing question.

By that time Courf and Enjolras had already finished their argument and were now heading over to the large table that everyone was seated at. “So! I see you’ve met everyone! Including the very delightful--” he added emphasis on ‘delightful’-- “Enjolras.”

Enjolras seemed to be studying him intensely. “Marius Pontmercy, if I am correct? Victor Enjolras.” He stuck out his hand, which Marius shook. “I take it you’re studying at the Golden State University of Law?”

Marius nodded, still feeling a bit nervous. “You go there too?” Enjolras merely nodded. Behind them, Joly laughed.

“Oh, poor Marius. He’ll have to deal with Professor Javert!” A couple of the guys laughed, Enjolras smirked, and Courf groaned.

“I still have him this year,” he pointed out. “Professor Javert is such a pain in the ass.”

“At least you know what he’s like,” Jehan said from where they were sitting. “We have a new professor, Professor Valjean, and no one knows what he’s like.”  
“Oh, isn’t he the one teaching music theory or something?” Grantaire mumbled. “Good luck to all the freshmen out there.”

Jehan poked him. “You do realize we still both have music theory this year? And that we have to continue taking it all the way up to our senior year?” Grantaire’s eyes widened before he buried his head in his hands and groaned loudly.

Joly stopped his conversation with Combeferre. “I heard Professor Valjean has a beautiful adopted daughter. All the way from France, they say.”

“Just like Bahorel?” someone asked, though Marius couldn’t see who asked.

Bahorel chuckled. “Perhaps we will have a lot in common,” he said in his lilting French accent.

“Where is she studying? Will she come here?” asked Marius, who had now found the courage to actually speak in what appeared to be a close-knit group of friends.

Joly shrugged. “I only heard through Musichetta. By the way, _L’Aigle_ ,” he added, grabbing the man’s arm, “Chetta said she’d be late. Possibly not even make it.”

Bossuet frowned, but simply nodded before giving Joly a light peck on the cheek.

An awkward silence fell over them, before Grantaire stood up. “Who wants to order something? I, for one, am in desperate need of some sustenance.” Everyone else started arguing over who would have to order. There were all sorts of crazy arguments, ranging from “too lazy” to “I have a zit right here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose; Courf’s friends were proving to be a difficult bunch.

_Les Amis_ continued arguing, but he stepped away so he wouldn’t be drawn into it, and perhaps chosen to order for the group. They can order individually, if they so wish, he thought wryly, with a smirk on his face. Although that meant he’d have to pay at least a little bit, though he did have his wallet with him. He supposed it was fine, even as his father’s voice drilled its way through his head, telling him to save his money.

“Marius?” He looked up to see the waitress behind the counter staring at him. Oh, she was so familiar. Straight (though bouncy) brown hair, eyes the color of cognac, and rosy apple cheeks. She eluded him, until he remembered three young girls, sisters, if he remembered correctly. Two brunettes, one blonde, though the youngest had a more reddish tinge to her hair. All daughters of the nasty innkeeper down the street, that his father had told to keep away from “He’s a crook, Marius. Don’t you ever dare talk to him.” But his daughters were a curious bunch, and Marius often stole away to talk to them, especially the eldest. What was her name?

It finally came to him. “Ponine?” Eponine Thenardier, here, of all places?

She nodded. Small world after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter! Really hope I can actually follow through with a story for once lol. Anyways I'll post the first chapter and move on from there I guess.


	2. Malheur d'Eponine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eponine reflects on the feelings for Marius and her parents

Eponine studied the man in front of her, the one she’d known since she was a child. Marius Pontmercy, grandson of the famed Monsieur Gillenormand. Marius Pontmercy, who often met with her and her sisters in secret. Marius Pontmercy . . . who she had a crush on since she was eight. Tall, gangly, eight year old Marius had grown into a slender young man of eighteen. And her feelings hadn’t changed, even in ten years.

“Ponine, what are you doing here? I thought your family was running that inn down in . . .” He trailed off.

She smiled sadly. “Papa moved our family here when the inn failed. It was also shut down because of . . . legal reasons.” _Which ended up placing my mom in jail, and leading my father to more devious means._ “You’re studying here?”

“At the Golden State University of Law. I’m rooming with uh, Courf. Courfeyrac, I mean.”

“Ah.”

“Are you studying here?”

“No.” Another sad smile. She didn’t have enough money, or at least, enough money of her own. Being a waitress was her only honest job; her father wished for her to follow him into his more dangerous endeavors. “I would if I could.”

Marius nodded, seeming to understand. “And where would you like to study if you could?”

Eponine thought about it for a while. Law? No, it was too unforgiving. And she knew she would never be able to stand throwing those down on their luck in jail, or defend someone who did not deserve it. _Like your Papa?_ a voice in the back of her mind teased. She tried to push that away. What else was around here? The Golden State University of Law, where Marius, Courf, Enjolras, and Bahorel were studying. The Golden State Center of Arts, and its sister school, the Golden State Conservatory. The Golden State Medical Center, and its own sister school, the Golden State Center for Science and Research. She ran through the other options as well: the Polytech University, and the University of History and Archeology. But did any of those suit her?

Art was nice, but she knew she would be grasping at straws trying to make ends meet. Did she enjoy watercolors? Yes, but only as a hobby. And singing was not her forte. She got squeamish when she saw blood, so being a doctor or a nurse or an EMT was out of the question. History? Oh, it was interesting enough . . . no, she lied, it was boring. Even as an eight year old, she knew, and fell asleep whenever the teacher was talking about history. And Polytech . . . Something clicked in her mind. Eponine had always been quick, quick thinking, quick-witted, and quick at calculations. Yes, the Polytech could be an option. Alas, she could never afford it.

“Ponine?” Marius’ voice jolted her out of her thoughts.

“Oh, um. The Polytech? I always did like math, as you know . . . “

“Marius!” She looked up to see Grantaire heading towards them. “We had already settled our debate, but it seems that you might be a helpful volunteer.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, I’m simply getting away from you idiots. Seriously, what kind of an excuse is ‘I may or may not be drunk’?”

Eponine snorted, fighting back laughter. “That’s Capital R alright. Though he looks sober enough.”

Grantaire stuck his tongue out at her. “Shut up, Nin. Anyways, we’re too lazy to decide individually on what we want, so a pizza for the whole gang. Including Monsieur Marius here, I suppose.” She nodded, before walking off to alert the chefs. After all, she only dealt with fountain drinks and taking orders. Not something as big as a pizza. Which was a comfort at least, because that meant she could talk more with her friends.

“So, monsieur, tell me how you came to know of Nin here,” said Grantaire, settling himself down on the counter. “I can see you two have quite the history.”

Marius sighed. “We were childhood friends. There were four of us, if I recall. What were we called, MACE?”

As Grantaire placed a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, Eponine reached out to lightly punch him in the arm. “Shut it, R, we were kids!” Marius’ face had already reddened but he was smiling slightly as well.

“I am sure you have your embarrassing childhood moments too, Grantaire,” he grumbled, yet with that small smile still on his face.

“And you are ever so right, though I will not expose myself so thoroughly so as to protect myself from blackmail,” he replied, pretending to tip an invisible hat. “So! Nin, have you been able to secure any scholarships? Even financial aid?”

She glared at him, not wanting him to mention that her family had fallen on harder times. Luckily, Azelma was old enough to work, and pretty soon Gavroche would be as well, but they could only get minimum-wage jobs, and they could barely hold down an apartment. And try as she might to distance herself from her parents, they always had a way of finding their way back.

Still, not like Marius needed to know anyways. “No, Grantaire,” she snapped, not bothering to use the shared nickname. “Besides, I have work to do.”

He shrugged, hopping off the counter and dragging Marius along by the arm. “C’mon, monsieur, you need to speak more with the boys.”

Eponine let out a sigh of relief when Grantaire left. Though he could be too reliant on alcohol, he was honest, and always provided a fresh perspective, regardless of the situation. However, he could also be a little too honest, and a little too nosy. And she could never predict when those hard-hitting questions were going to come. Perhaps that was the charm of it all.

The pizza was finally done and she brought it to the merry band of boys, plus Musichetta, who had joined them at some point. “Eat up, boys. I hope you guys don’t mind pineapple on pizza; the chefs thought it would be fun.”

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically. “Pineapple on pizza? How repulsive! I would rather sit through 24 hours of Professor Javert’s lectures.”

Marius, who was sitting next to him, grabbed a slice. “I beg to differ, Courf. Pineapple and pizza are the epitome of good food combinations.”

Eponine smiled as she watched the two of them bicker over pizza, of all things. “Boys,” she whispered to Musichetta, who was seated next to Joly and Bossuet. “I s’pose I can’t be too surprised, seeing as this happens all the time.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Musichetta whispered back. “Last night I caught my boys arguing over a ramen cup.”

She snorted, before turning her attention back to the argument, which both Enjolras and Montparnasse had already joined. “Really? Are you actually going to debate this?”

“Ah, but they are lawyers, or soon to be, anyways,” quips Grantaire. “Therefore, they must debate any and every thing they come across.” This earned him a light punch on the shoulder from Montparnasse.

She rolled her eyes before sliding next to Montparnasse. “A lawyer, Montparnasse? Didn’t know that.”

“I managed to get in on a scholarship. Just barely.”

“I see.” She nodded, perhaps a bit too cordially, but politely all the same. “Rooming with anyone?”

“I prefer a dorm to myself.”

Eponine smirked. “Of course.” After all, he was more of a reclusive type.

“So!” Courfeyrac yelled out suddenly. “Now that our dear friend Marius has warmed up with the first debate, new topic: do you think Claquesous actually murdered poor Monsieur Mabeuf?”

She grabbed a slice of pizza as she watched them argue over the case. Alas, Claquesous did not seem to be the one behind this. Being briefly involved with her father’s schemes, she knew the members of the Patron-Minette (which she found to be a pretty name, if slightly ominous), and she knew them well. And Claquesous, though Claquesous was a shrouded man, one even more reclusive than Montparnasse . . . she knew one thing about him--he would never think to act on his own. No, all members of the Patron-Minette answered to one man, and one man only.

Lucas Thenardier, her father.

“She’s got a point,” Montparnasse said after she explained everything. “The Patron-Minette may be devious, backstabbing criminals, but Thenardier has their full loyalty, money or no.”

“Even if that’s the case, they still have to find evidence that Claquesous even murdered Monsieur Mabeuf,” Enjolras pointed out. “Although what evidence they do have is pretty damning.”

Marius frowned. “Why would your father want Mabeuf dead, Ponine?”

An uneasy silence fell over them, interrupted only by Grantaire’s incessant drumming. Which wasn’t too helpful for her concentration. “Dunno,” she finally said. “Money, perhaps? Or Mabeuf was about to rat him out. Those are the only two options I can think of.”

“Makes sense. Thenardier is a greedy type.”

Eponine let out a sigh, before picking at the crust of her pizza. “I hope for my sake, and my siblings, that our father isn’t behind all of this. It’s only a matter of time before they come for us.”

~*~

As they left the cafe, she grabbed Marius’s arm. “You should come by sometimes,” she said, feeling heat rising to her cheeks as she struggled to find the words. “Catch up, and all that.”

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, seeming also a bit flushed. “Of course.”

She nodded, and went back to sweeping. Thankfully, her shift was almost over. Then she could go home, check in with her siblings, and continue searching for a way to get financial aid. She could get in the Polytech, that was what she wanted. Or at least, a school where she could grow up . . . and become a teacher. A math teacher. Something to do with math. And kids.

As she walked home (she couldn’t afford a car yet), she clutched the necklace Marius had given to her, all those years ago. To think they’d find their way back to each other . . .

She twisted the key, and opened the door, to find Gavroche and André, her younger brothers, on the couch. André was already asleep, though Gavroche seemed to be awake, if barely. Eponine smiled, before gently lifting her younger brother, and walking over to the bedroom he shared with Benjamin, his twin. There, she stared at him for a moment, remembering when André and Benjamin were just born, and Gavroche was barely a toddler, and she was a scared girl of nine, shielding her brothers from the brunt of their mother’s harsh words, or their father’s fists.

And she became a determined girl of twelve when her brothers were kicked out and she decided to take her siblings and flee for America, away from her parents, away from what they might do to her loved ones. To start a new life, although her parents found a way back into hers, and they tried to use her, and--

She was only twelve.

She wasn’t even a teenager.

“Ponine?” She pushed away her thoughts, for Gavroche was standing at the door. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She stood up, brushing her hair out of her face. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should've said this in the last chapter, but it would've been so funny if i either did the running joke of "all les amis have the first name of jean" or just kept their first names ambiguous. alas i actually gave them first names. :pensive:
> 
> anyways--eponine and her unrequited love for marius! now pine
> 
> no more pineapple pizza society has progressed past the need the need for pineapple pizza
> 
> i love eponine and feel so bad for her. marius please recognize that your childhood best friend has had a crush on you for the past ten years. please.
> 
> also i love the thenardier family, especially gavroche. but not the parents. fuck the parents.


	3. L'homme masqué

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lafayette goes along with his friend’s plan and discovers something

“No, Marius, I have not seen the news recently. What do you mean someone was murdered in . . . what is the state called? California? Hm, I will check it out later. Thank you. _Au revoir._ ”

Gilbert hung up and placed his phone down. Although he loved catching up with his childhood friends, sometimes Marius could be . . . a little tactless. Or rather, socially unaware. Socially awkward. He’d witnessed him trip over his words many times, or say “you too” to the waitress, or just not say anything when prompted. Even thinking about it gave him secondhand embarrassment. Oh well.

“Who was that on the phone?” a voice asked from the other room. “Friend of yours?”

“Yes,” he replied. “From France.”

The voice laughed. “France? Oh, do go on, Gil.”

Gilbert groaned. “No John, because then you will spread the news that I have a girlfriend back in France.”

John Laurens finally walked into the room. “C’mon, Gil, y’know I wouldn’t do that!”

“You might. Or that _connard_ Charles Lee might.”

His friend sighed loudly. “Charles Lee is not one for gossip and you know it.”

“Still a bastard.”

“One might advise you to avoid talking shit about the RA, but I think it’s fine behind closed doors. Besides, he is a bastard.”

He nodded, chuckling a bit. Charles Lee, the infamous RA who kissed the dean’s ass and was always quick to rat out even the slightest suspicion of trouble. However (and he saw for himself), the RA was also a notorious coward, who would definitely snitch on his friends in order to get out of trouble.

“I mean, I do not think he likes me anyways, so it might be best if I stop.”

John shrugged, before plopping down on the couch where Gilbert was sitting. They sat in silence for a few minutes before any one of them spoke up. “Sooooo, who’s this friend of yours?”

“Promise not to say that I have a girlfriend?”

He held out his hand, with an expression of mock seriousness on his face. “I do solemnly swear, my dear Marquis.” That earned him a prod in his side, as Gilbert loathed that nickname. His family, the Motiers, was once a proud and noble family that was still proud, but not exactly noble. Hell, nobility didn’t even exist anymore. However, it was clear that the Motiers still thought highly of themselves. Why else would their children have the long-ass names representative of the nobility of the day?

Oh right, the friend. “Well, his name is Marius. He is a close family friend of mine, and our family, the Motiers. Apparently his mother was a Gillenormand, a highly respected family in France.”

“Was?”

“Er, he lost his mother when he was young.” He felt slightly uncomfortable revealing his friend’s life story to someone else, but reasoned that it wasn’t too much and that John was a friend too.

He nodded, before motioning for Gilbert to go on.

“Our families frequently saw each other, along with others whose names I cannot remember. We became the best of friends, and regularly got into trouble together. From what I know after I moved here, Marius moved to California for school, and two more of my friends, Raoul and Adrienne stayed in France.”

“Interesting. I vaguely heard you two talk about . . . murder?”

“Now you are just probing,” Gilbert muttered. “Must you ask about everything?”

“Weeeeeeeeeell . . . it could provide content for Lexi’s podcast.” Another side prod. “Oh c’mon, he doesn’t hate the nickname that much.”

He threw himself back on the couch, rubbing his temples. John was fun to be around, but he could be terribly insufferable too, and definitely way too nosy for his own good. “At least it is better than the podcast name. Hamilnews? That is the best that he could come up with?”

John snorted. “Like you could do better.”

“I would call it _Nouvelles de la Semaine_. News of the Week.”

“Gil, that’s the boringest name I have ever heard.”

“But it is French, so no one would notice that it is boring.”

“Your logic is so weird sometimes.”

Gilbert shrugged. “I suppose we are not the best at names.”

His friend placed an arm around him. “No, we are not.”

~*~

“Please, Gil? I promise I won’t go off on a tangent about conspiracy theories.”

“No, Alex.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

Another friend of theirs, (and Gilbert’s roommate) Hercules Mulligan, pointed a spoon at Alexander Hamilton from where he was eating his lunch. “He’s got a point. You do have the tendency to ramble a lot. Even if it does seem rather eloquent.”

“A necessary tool if one wants to be a lawyer,” Alexander retorted.

“The rambling or the eloquence?” Gilbert asked, rubbing his temples.

He shrugged. “Both. Look, if we do this, I will mention the fact that these two murders happened within hours of each other, and how suspicious it is. Nothing more.”

“Do I have your word?”

“Of course, Gil.” He stuck out his hand, which Gilbert shook. “You will always have my word.”

Hercules was already finished with his lunch and yanked the remote from where Gilbert was fiddling with it. “I still think it’s a coincidence. Like, just because they happened within hours of each other doesn’t mean they’re connected. Plus, they happened on literally opposite ends of the US. How are they even connected?”

“Well,” Alexander began, “I think it’s more than a coincidence, but so far they haven’t even gathered enough evidence to convict someone, at least not here. Their primary suspect over in California is someone named Thénard or some other, and I heard that the primary suspect here is possibly connected to that guy.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ , Alex, you really are starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist. _C'est probablement juste une rumeur, mon ami_. That’s all.”

Alexander shook his head. “But that’s still a lead, is it not? This guy, this suspect, is the only guy we know of, and if he is connected to this Thénard guy . . .”

Gilbert was about to say something before Hercules cut them both off. “While you two were bickering, I found this little gem.” He had paused on the headline: _New Possible Suspect in the Murder of James Callender_. “That could seriously make or break your theory, Alex.”

“Personally, I think the evidence is the one to make or break it,” the student retorted, getting up from the couch. “Well, perhaps that is a reason to cut it from the podcast altogether, though people will definitely be sad that no new theories have arisen. Gil, you still coming?”

He nodded, getting up as well, before waving to his roommate and leaving. They stepped into the common room, before walking down the hallway to Alexander and John’s room. While they were walking, Alexander pulled out his phone, before grinning widely. “What is it?” Gilbert asked.

“Peggy’s agreed to help me with the department of love,” Alexander replied, practically swooning.

“Who?”

“Peggy Schuyler? You don’t know her?”

Well, clearly he did not.

“Look, the Schuyler sisters are the most popular girls at this school. I heard they’re incredibly rich--their father is a famous politician. And--”

“And let me guess. You have a crush on one of them.”

He blushed. “It’s not exactly a crush, moreso a slight infatuation.”

“Alex, that sounds exactly like a crush. _Tu es amoureux_.”

“Technically a crush is different from being in love.”

Gilbert snorted before pointing at the door. “Well, we’re here.”

They walked in and settled down, sitting at the table Alexander recorded at. He glimpsed at the script, which was very loose. He supposed that allowed for a more relaxed conversation, rather than something strict and stiff. His friend was furiously typing away, which Gilbert assumed was him trying to fit in the new information he had just learned. After maybe 10 minutes or so, he was done.

“Okay, let’s get to recording.”

~*~

It had probably been more than 30 minutes when they finally reached the big topic: the murders of James Callender and Fabien Mabeuf. Gilbert didn’t know much about this Mabeuf guy, other than what was on the news. An elderly church warden, who was also not quite a bestselling author, but successful enough, and apparently a good family friend of Marius’ father. Meanwhile, James Callender ran the local gossip columns, and there were rumors that he was getting paid to expose people. Either way, Gilbert did not care at all.

“So, the primary suspect for Callender is someone named Brujon, a known criminal. As for Mabeuf’s murder, Gil, what’s the news over there?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, they say a man named Thénard murdered him, or at least, someone who goes by the name Thénard. I believe there was someone with that name back in France, and apparently gained a reputation as _l'aubergiste tordu_. The crooked innkeeper. He’s evaded authorities for a while, if memory serves me correctly. I am not too sure about him.”

“Ah, thank you Gil. Speaking of mysteries, let us turn to another suspect for Callender’s murder. According to the news, according to police, he goes by the name of Mister Y. No one knows who he truly is, only that he wears a mask and comes from France. Gil, do you know of anyone like that?”

Gilbert was stumped. He had never known a Mister Y, nor a masked man of France. There were, of course, masked men in their history, but surely they were all dead. “I am afraid I do not.”

“Well, in any case, there we go. Three suspects, two murders.”

They continued to speak a little more on the topic, before Alexander ended it. “And that’s it for the news of the week. Tune in next week for the episode of Hamilnews. I’m your host, Alexander Hamilton, and . . .”

“I am your guest, Gilbert du Motier,” Gilbert said, feeling a bit embarrassed at having to use the “du.” God, sometimes he hated his family.

There just was something he couldn’t shake. Mister Y. Mister Y. Who was he? Nothing in his mind registered when he thought of a masked man from France, and yet it intrigued him. Perhaps Marius would know. He texted him: _Marius do you know of a Mister Y?_ As he waited for a reply, he also thought of his other friends. Raoul. Adrienne. And others.

A ding. Marius had replied. _ask raoul idk_

Perhaps that’s what he would do. He sent the text. _Connais-tu un Mister Y?_

And maybe he thought it was only a few minutes, and maybe he thought he wouldn’t stay long at Alex’s dorm, but he woke up on Alex’s couch, to a reply from Raoul. _Je sais qui est Mister Y. Et nous devons faire Facetime maintenant._

Holy shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i'm sorry this took so long i was working on something else! new chapter will probably come out at the usual time (aka wednesdays)
> 
> anyways if the french here is bad i'm sorry i literally used google translate. i have like. basic knowledge of french. that's it.
> 
> we're on the other side of the world now! meet the hamilsquad ig.
> 
> gee i wonder who mister y is. i wonder who.


	4. Par l'amour et le mensonge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamilton uncovers something new about the suspects

Alexander Hamilton was normally gifted with words.

He made passionate speeches, wrote countless essays, and created emotional poems, all with the flick of his pen.

And yet he couldn’t say a single goddamn word in front of Elizabeth Schuyler.

How pathetic.

“So . . . how’s the weather?” he asked tentatively, secretly sweating.

“You’ve already asked that five times Alex. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“NoyeahI’mfine!” he blurted out, before sagging down at the fact that his words had failed him again. In front of the socialite of the school, no less.

She sighed and laid a hand on his. “Alex, it’s fine. Don’t think of me as one the most popular girls at the school. Just remember that I’m a person, same as you.”

He groaned, practically slamming his head on the table. “Sorry, I’m usually better than this.”

“Mm. The eloquent Alexander Hamilton, brought down by the charm of Betsy Schuyler.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?”

“Sorry.” She reached under his chin and lifted it up. “It’s no big deal, Alex. You’ve no idea how many times guys and girls alike have fallen speechless at the mere sight of me, or my sisters.”

He knew she was right. It was normal to lose your words when any Schuyler sister walked in. And yet he wanted to be the exception. The one who could still keep his words, his charm, his wit. Not have it melt away as soon as he saw one girl he was possibly attracted to. Hell, he still managed to keep it even if he was attracted.

So why was Betsy Schuyler, catch of the school, any different?

Perhaps it was the stress. Yes, that could be it. He knew that he would be sitting in on the trial for Callender’s murderer (whomever it might be) to learn how legal proceedings worked, and to see real lawyers in action. But he wasn’t going to participate in it, only watch. Besides, he was always stressed. So perhaps stress was out.

Alexander recounted Gilbert’s words. _“Tu es amoureux.”_ You are in love. He snorted at the idea. In love? Certainly not. It was just a mere infatuation, a crush, that was all. He simply liked her laugh and her soft but strong voice and her wide, brilliant smile.

Fuck.

A crush, a crush, he kept telling himself. That’s all there is to it.

He sighed. “Perhaps it would be better if we went somewhere . . . less noisy.” Maybe that way he would be able to concentrate on his words better.

“If you wish. Your dorm or mine?”

“I-Is that allowed?” The answer was yes, but the unspoken rule was usually boys didn’t enter girls’ dorms and vice versa. Also Elizabeth had caught him off guard.

“Well, I hope so. Let’s go to your dorm, Peggy rooms with me and she’s a slob.”

“O-Okay.” God, he could not wait to get away from this noise.

~*~

Alexander opened the door to find that his dorm was not as clean as he had hoped it would be. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Uh, sorry about the mess.” Honestly, if he had to describe it, it would be like if a tornado decided to throw his (and John’s) things across the room. Ugh.

“Reminds me of Peggy’s half of the room. Don’t worry, I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He wanted it to be clean. He wanted to impress her. After all, who’d want to go out with someone who left their dishes in the sink and their laundry across the couch? “It’s just, I was hoping it would be cleaner.”

She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Then let’s get cleaning, silly.” And with that, she picked up some of the laundry, to which Alexander was surprised. Jesus, that was probably week old laundry. It probably stinked. And yet she didn’t seem fazed.

It left him even more speechless.

Washing dishes was a chore Alexander never liked, which is why he never did it. There was also the fact that he mostly kept to his desk, even going so far as to eat there, simply so he could focus solely on not only his homework, but on other works of his. His friends often asked him to take a break, but he felt as though he could not. Today was a day where most of his focus was off his work, and on Elizabeth. As he scrubbed away at a plate that seemed to have bits of lasagna stuck to it, he pondered why she made him feel this way. Yet he didn’t want to think about it too much, because if he did he would surely stop working and also look like a tomato. _Work, and you’ll keep your mind off Elizabeth Schuyler_.

“Oh, is this your homework?” He looked up to see her looking at a crumpled up piece of binder paper that had messy scribbles all over it. “Thuh . . . Thuhnard?”

Embarrassed, he snatched the paper from her hands. “Uh . . . those were some things about the murder case . . “ he muttered.

She frowned. “What does this Thuhnard guy have to do with Callender?” “It’s Thénard, and I’m just speculating.”

He sighed. “Look, this Brujon guy may be linked to him. And apparently he’s in California, where the other murder took place. I’m not saying it’s not a coincidence but sometimes it really isn’t.”

Elizabeth still frowned, before reaching for the paper. “Okay, now you’re reaching.”

“I asked a friend about this, and he said that Thénard is a known criminal in France, so that could be something.”

“Alex, how about we focus on something other than conspiracy theories?”

He let out a groan of frustration. “I just think it’s odd how Thénard is connected to both suspects! It can’t be that far-fetched!”

A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Now that you say that, it is a bit odd. However, let’s get the room cleaned up first, then discuss it.” She smirked and booped his nose. “You, sir, are a very insightful individual.”

“Uhyeahthanks.” Curse Elizabeth’s charm.

~*~

“Claquesous? Never heard of him before.”

“There’s not much information on him. The only thing we know is that his last name, or alias, is Claquesous, and that he answers to Thénard.”

“Have any info on Thénard himself?”

His keyboard clicked under his fingers as he tried searching Thénard. The only thing that came up were the Thénards, an apparently wealthy family from France. Listed along with the du Motiers, the de Chagnys, and the Gillenormands. Interesting. “Why would an innkeeper be listed as a wealthy family member?”

“Perhaps an alias, a second life of sorts? One to either cover for his dirty deeds or to make him seem wealthier than he really is?” She frowned. “Ask your friend for more details on this Thénard.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” he muttered, still scrolling through what pages were available. “Though he has never once mentioned a Thénard in his recountings.”

Elizabeth snorted. “Why, does he know of the top families of France?”

“He is one. Gilbert du Motier, hailing from the province of Haute-Loire. Although he said Thénard was infamous in France for being a crooked innkeeper, so I’m not sure what’s up with that.”

“I see. Well that’s not very helpful, then. Find anything on Brujon?”

“No, aside from his past crimes.”

“Hm.”

By this point Alexander was getting frustrated. Some things would just be easier if everyone involved was famous. Like, worldwide famous. Gilbert might be able to help, though he was just getting tired. Some first date this was. “Sorry I dragged you into this,” he murmured into his hands.

“It’s okay.”

“No, really, Betsy, it’s just--”

One peck on the cheek, and he stopped immediately. “I don’t mind, Alex, really. It’s always fun to find things out, and it was really nice to bounce ideas around with you. Besides, you sound like you’re really into this. Why should you be sorry for the things you enjoy?”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t enjoy it too much, but the case is fascinating and--okay yeah I do enjoy it.”

Elizabeth booped his nose once more. “Maybe you should contact this friend of yours, to see what he knows.”

“Maybe I should.”

To his surprise, Gilbert was apparently Facetiming his other friends from France, and though he didn’t want to impose, he insisted that Alexander join them.

“Look, I’m sorry, Gil wanted me here, please blame him,” he said, when he finally entered.

A young man with curly brown hair and dimples laughed, while another man with wide blue eyes and a regal look simply smiled. “Your friend is very funny,” the man with the curly brown hair said.

“So I have heard,” Gilbert responded dryly. “Anyways, these are my friends, Marius Pontmercy and Raoul de Chagny. Marius, Raoul, this is Alexander Hamilton.”

Marius waved eagerly, while Raoul’s was more subdued. “You were asking about Thénard, correct?” Marius asked.

“Yeah . . .” He glared momentarily at Gilbert (playfully), to which Gilbert shrugged.

“Well, I can tell you who you’re asking about. His real name is Lucas Thénardier, and yes, he lives here. He runs a gang, called Patron-Minette.”

Alexander frowned. “Wait, how do you know all this?”

“I do,” he replied, though Alexander could tell there was more to the story. Eh, he wasn’t going to dig too far into it.

“Alex, are you done talking with your friend?” Elizabeth called from another room, before entering. “Oh! You didn’t tell me you were actually Facetiming people!”

He smiled. “Gilbert dragged me into it.”

Gilbert laughed upon seeing Elizabeth. “I see you have successfully snagged a girlfriend. Congratulations, Alexander.”

“I mean, she’s not technically my girlfriend . . .”

Elizabeth smacked his arm. “You went out on a date with me. I’m your girlfriend.”

Raoul cleared his throat, before spilling out something in French. “If you were wondering why the Thénards pop up as a wealthy family, it’s because they were. Their line ended with the death of Baroness Victoire-Héléne de Thénard. Perhaps Thénardier is simply trying to exploit the influence they once had.”

“He’s not going to get away with it, that’s for sure,” Marius muttered, also in French. “His business went to shit and everyone in France knows about the Thénards. No way is he going to fool anyone.”

Alexander nodded, taking all of this information in. “So do you know anything about Claquesous, or anyone in this Patron-Minette?”

“Not much,” said Marius.

“Hm.”

“You look tired, Alex,” Gilbert said. “ _S'il te plait va faire une sieste_.”

“Ughhh, fine.” Truth be told, he was already drifting off.

Elizabeth waved at the three of them. “I’ll make sure he takes a nap, or whatever you said.” She smiled apologetically. “My French isn’t very good, sorry.”

“No problem, _madmoiselle_.”

“C’mon, Alex, get up.”

Alex could only remember Elizabeth carrying him. After that, he wasn’t quite sure, as he drifted off into the oblivion of sleep. And the last thing he saw was Betsy’s beautiful smile, as he smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't believe i wrote this in like. a day. not my best work but what can you do.
> 
> alexander is a simp for eliza and we all know it.
> 
> should probably just write eliza djafkljdls;afl elizabeth is too long.
> 
> introducing hamilton and marius to each other! my fanfic writing self is squealing.
> 
> alexander does not know when to sleep and if im being honest neither do i.


	5. Un entêtement réputé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras finds himself distracted

Coffee was the sole energy source for Enjolras. No tea, no energy drinks, no naps. Just coffee, which managed to carry him throughout the entire day. Impressive. And yet it did not help combat the heavy feeling tugging at his eyelids while he struggled to type away at his laptop.

He looked at his watch. 1:02 am. Shit, how long had he been up? Rubbing his eyes, he continued to pore over his essay. Currently, it was already polished and pristine, but he knew there was a grammatical error, or some circular reasoning, or a miscited quote somewhere in there. He just hadn’t found it yet. He would, eventually, if he just kept looking . . .

“Enjolras.” He startled, and turned to face his roommate, who had turned on the light, blinking blearily and glaring at him. “It’s already past one o’clock. Please go to sleep.”

“No,” he replied curtly, before turning back to his laptop.

“You may be a good and dedicated friend, but my God are you stubborn. Go. To. Sleep.”

“What the hell did I tell you?”

Feuilly scowled before crossing the room to look at Enjolras’s essay. “The fuck, Enj? This is what you’re staying up for? A fucking essay?”

Enjolras knew that whenever Feuilly said “fuck,” he meant business. And yet he bit back.

“It’s not finished.”

“And?”

He groaned in frustration. “It needs to be perfect! I know there’s something wrong with it.” There was always something wrong, always something he could do better.

His roommate sighed exasperatedly. “Jesus, Enj, you are so . . . _testardo_ sometimes.”

“Feuilly, you know as well as I do that I do not speak Italian.”

“Like a . . . donkey. Just . . . what's the word?”

"Stubborn?"

"Yeah, stubborn, like a fucking donkey."

Enjolras turned to face his friend entirely. “I am not stubborn. I simply need to finish proofreading this so that it’s ready when I turn it in.”

Feuilly looked like he was about to scream. “Enj, the essay isn’t due until _two weeks later_! And you look like you’re about to pass out. C’mon, please put your health first for once.”

“If I get a head start--”

“You will make more mistakes if you’re running on nothing but zero hours of sleep and a gallon of caffeine!”

He glared at his friend. He knew Feuilly was speaking reason but there was this voice at the back of his head telling him that there was something wrong. _Fix it now. You won’t be able to find it later_ , it said. Always. There was always something wrong and he could never find it. And when it came time to grade, it was the most obvious mistake. The most obvious typo. It was rare for him to get a perfect score, and yet . . .

And yet that was what he always strived for. Perfection. After all, wasn’t the goal to be perfect? Master the skill so you wouldn’t mess up?

Feuilly grabbed him by the shoulders. “I know what you’re thinking, Enj. But you'll have time to proofread later. Go to sleep.”

He grumbled, but he relented. Feuilly could be just as stubborn as he was when it came to taking care of one’s health. Besides, he knew that there was backup in the form of Combeferre and Joly, who would surely berate him for staying up so late. So he got up from the desk, and turned off his laptop. _Leave it for tomorrow_ , he told himself. _For another day_.

Enjolras debated whether he should brush his teeth and shower or not, before coming to the conclusion that maybe he should. While the water was running, the student busied himself by humming a tune (if slightly off-key) and letting his mind wander. He dried himself with a towel and flopped onto the bed still naked, determined to sleep, if only to please Feuilly.

He couldn’t sleep.

Damn the coffee. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea.

It was probably two hours later when he got up again, if only to keep from tossing and turning. He grabbed some pants, tiptoed back into the shared study, and opened his laptop. This time, he wasn’t going to work on the essay. Feuilly was right, he probably would make things worse if he tried to work on it this time. He pushed away the nagging voice, and opened up a new document, typing things down in his haze of half-alertness, half-drowsiness.

“Enjolras.” He was jolted out of his state of thinking.

“What?”

“I thought you promised me that you would try to get some rest.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I knew you shouldn’t have drank that extra cup of coffee.”

“Don’t rub it in.” In fact, he was starting to get a pounding headache. That couldn’t be good.

“Well, at least you’re not working on that essay . . . hey isn’t this the murder case?”

“Yeah . . .” he admitted sheepishly. It was probably the only other thing on his mind besides his classes and Les Amis meetings.

Feuilly again looked like he was about to scream. “You sacrifice your sleep and sanity for the weirdest things, Enj.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Feuilly, I am merely curious.”

“You’re not working on the case! You’re only observing it.”

_I can dream_ , he thought bitterly, though he must’ve spat it out too.

“Times are hard for dreamers, Enj. Focus on yourself, not your dreams.”

Enjolras desperately wanted to say something. His dreams couldn’t wait. This was what he had dreamed of. Being a bigshot lawyer. Helping others get justice. After all, that was what he was interested in. His parents too, but it was mostly his decision. “I like my dreams,” he pouted. Sometimes that’s what also got him through. His dreams. His goals.

“Oh, Enj, I--” Feuilly cursed soundly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant focus on yourself in the moment. Right now. Take care of yourself. Not that you should give up on your dreams. I--”

He waved off his friend. “No problem. You’re fine.” After all, Feuilly wasn’t exactly a dreamer. Yes, he envisioned a better world. Didn’t everybody? But as Feuilly said, dreams could be worn down by hardship, and eventually wasted away. _“Times are hard for dreamers,”_ he had said earlier. He found it hard to believe that the world could actually change. Not like Enjolras, who believed in change. Not like Enjolras, who envisioned himself changing the world. Not like Enjolras, who was a dreamer.

His dreams were special to him, because he wanted to leave a lasting mark. Not just for his legacy, but for him. For that was what he wanted to do, for himself. _I want to be a better person and change the world for the better. That makes me happy. And that means I can help those like Feuilly._

Feuilly thought times were hard for dreamers? Maybe they were, but Enjolras was determined to prove him wrong.

But for now, he was right. Again. Though the famed stubbornness of Enjolras threatened to come through.

“Victor Alexandre Enjolras, go back to sleep, or I will drag you there myself.”

He yawned, before nodding .”Yes sir,” he said sarcastically, eliciting a slight smile from his roommate. Together, they climbed into their respective beds, and waited for sleep to overtake them.

And yet there was still something else on his mind . . .

~*~

A loud, ringing alarm jolted Enjolras from bed. Oh God, his head was still pounding. He frowned as he realized he hadn’t thought to at least put on a shirt, and instead was bare chested. Embarrassing, to say the least. Luckily, Feuilly would never mention it. Just the way he wanted it.

He rummaged through the closet, trying to find the secret stash of cereal and granola bars reserved for early classes. As he did, he heard Feuilly stir. “Morning,” he said, at last pulling out a granola bar.

“Pass me one of those, will you?” Feuilly groaned. “Turns out I have a Psychology class at 7:30.”

“Damn.” He tossed Feuilly a granola bar. “You want me to drive you to the Science Center?”

“Nah, I’ll get Bahorel to drive me.”

“Okay.”

He packed his things, yawning occasionally. God, he hated early morning classes. Coffee would probably be necessary, but he couldn’t get any right now. Especially with Feuilly standing close by. He knew his friend was vehemently opposed to the stuff. As he zipped up his jacket, his mind wandered back to the case. Perhaps this could be some practice . . .

~*~

Normally, the drone of the professor didn’t bother him that much. In fact, it was rather soothing at times.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t able to put students to sleep. It was hard enough paying attention in this class, but Enjolras couldn’t get the case or the trial out of his mind. He didn’t know why, and it was driving him crazy. Luckily, the professor couldn’t see him fidgeting distractedly with his pencil from where he was. A great strategy of his, to sit up high so he could still focus, but get away with fidgeting and laying his head down on his table. Though he never daydreamed or fell asleep. No, he could never afford to. This professor never posted notes, so if he ever did . . . yeesh. He didn’t want to think about that.

Unfortunately, he was about as interested in this lesson as he was in engineering and computer science. Not very. In fact, this, coupled with his exhaustion from staying up earlier threatened his no-sleep streak. He pried his eyes open, attempting to stay awake while his mind was on other things.

“Thank God that’s over,” he muttered under his breath once he was done. He opened his phone to see his schedule. Enough time to grab coffee. Might as well.

After grabbing some black coffee (he liked it that way) he sprinted towards the campus. His next class was going to start, and Professor Javert didn’t tolerate tardiness.

Thankfully he wasn’t tardy, and found a seat high enough. It was kind of useless though, for Professor Javert had the eyes of an eagle and could catch anyone goofing off or slipping into Dreamland. Enjolras now wished he sat closer, because the words on the slides were slightly blurry at best and unseeable at worst. “Dammit,” he muttered. He’d forgotten to put in his contacts. It always happened with the early classes.

“Mister Enjolras!” A voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Are you having trouble seeing?”

“Yes,” he said, a bit embarrassed.

“Then come down here,” Professor Javert replied sternly, and pointed to a seat that was almost in the front row. He nodded, and swiftly made his way down there. _Damn your hurry to get to class_.

Throughout Professor Javert’s class, he struggled to pay attention. The coffee was definitely not helping, and he wondered if he’d ordered a decaf by accident. He was grateful, however, for the close proximity to the projector.

“ . . . and that will be all. Remember, we have a pop quiz sometime next week.”

Oh. That went by quickly.

He shook his head. God, there was something wrong with him today. Normally he could get through the days fine, but this time he just wanted to go back to his dorm . . .

And research the case more. Why was he so obsessed with the case? He was merely an observer, as Feuilly had pointed out. Not the prosecutor. Not the defense attorney. An observer. As he walked towards a bench on campus grounds, he swore loudly and strongly, kicking the grass in front of him.

“Someone’s upset,” a voice drawled from where they were.

“Shut it, Courf.” He didn’t feel like listening to his friend’s teasing.

“You’re telling me you can’t tell our voices apart?” Enjolras looked up to see Grantaire grinning down at him.

“Wait, isn’t it--aren’t you--class?” he stuttered, shocked to see the art student here.

“It is breaktime, is it not?” Grantaire asked, a light in his eyes. “Now tell me, dear Apollo, what’s on your mind.”

“Again--class?”

“I told you it was breaktime. Plus, the ensemble meeting was canceled. Don’t tell Jehan this, but I actually didn’t mind. Lord knows the only music we make is less than melodious.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. He’d played in the Conservatory ensemble. Once. Playing the violin. It actually wasn’t too bad, but the group itself was disjointed and couldn’t even work together within one section. “Have you considered creating your own ensemble? Preferably one that works together?”

“A splendid idea, Apollo. Though I must say, it seems that no one has been blessed with the talent of the Muses.”

“Nonsense, Grantaire. You’re amazing at the piano.”

Grantaire smiled sadly at him. “If only. Now, what’s on your mind?”

“You know the case, right? Well, it’s that.” He sighed. “But that’s the problem. It’s only that, and I can’t focus on my classes. And I’m so tired.”

“Sounds like you need to reserve a date with Hypnos,” his friend remarked. “Alas, the other problem, I cannot help with. Perhaps the closure of the trial will be the only thing that helps.”

“That’s the thing. I want to research the whole thing, to figure out who killed who, and just . . . I don’t know why!” He rambled further about his feelings, about the case, about the upcoming trial, and how he felt invested in it, for whatever reason.

“ . . . because I heard it was right on campus, or right next to campus, and we haven’t had something like this in 30 years.” He looked up from where he was sitting, and saw Grantaire paying attention with wide eyes, almost like he was trying to capture all of him, cohesive rambling and all. Perhaps he was just interested in the case. “Um, so if Claquesous had done it . . .”

By the time he was able to go back to his dorm, he was on his fifth cup of coffee. Oh wow, was he going to regret it. He slammed the front door, walked into the study, and promptly collapsed, eliciting a cry of concern from his friend.

“Enj! Are you alright?”

“M’fine,” he said by way of reply.

“Enj . . . how many cups of coffee did you have?”

He scowled at his friend, too tired to get up. “Not that much, why?”

“I know that look. You’ve been downing caffeine since the morning, haven’t you?”

“I’m fine, Feuilly, really.” He pushed himself off the ground, before walking into his bedroom and falling in bed. The last thing he heard was “I’m calling Combeferre.”

~*~

“I hope you realize that too much caffeine is a bad thing, Chief,” said a voice. Enjolras shot up, to find Combeferre in his room.

He scowled once more. “I was fine.”

“I mean, if you keep it up, you won’t be. People have died from too much caffeine intake at one time.”

The law student forced himself to take a deep breath. “I was simply tired. I overdrank. I’m fine now.”

“Enjolras, you’ve never passed out from a caffeine crash before,” Feuilly said from where he was. “Exactly how much did you drink?”

Groaning, he fell back in bed. “Five cups,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

“How much?”

“Five cups.”

“Jesus, Enj,” Feuilly cried out. “No wonder you’re so tired.”

“That, and I stayed up until two last night.”

Combeferre looked like he was about to cry. “Enjolras, what the hell? You usually never stay up that late.”

“It’s nothing . . .” He sighed. “I just stayed up too late this one time.”

“Okay . . .” Combeferre said, eyeing him suspiciously.

Feuilly shook his head. “It’s the case, isn’t it?”

Enjolras froze. Feuilly was right, he was absolutely right. It was the murder of Mabeuf. He’d rambled about it to Grantaire. He had a document on it. And that wasn’t even it. The case on the other side of the country . . .

But he wasn’t about to admit it. No, he was an Enjolras, and they were stubborn. “I’m fine!” he shouted, before pushing his way past his friends, to grab his laptop. He could contain it, couldn’t he? Perhaps he could find some respite in the library, or with some other friends.

As he set up in the library, he absentmindedly placed in his earbuds, and played some classical music. Vivaldi, he supposed, though he wasn’t quite paying attention. He studied the evidence and the case so far. Everything seemed to add up, though it was annoying that there was practically nothing on Claquesous, the main suspect.

His fingers clicked away as he tried to find something, before seeing something he hadn’t before. Brujon. That seemed familiar. He typed away more. Ah. He called his friend.

“Hello, Jehan! Yes, I’m fine. No, Joly is exaggerating, I’m not dying of a caffeine overdose. Um, have you heard of a guy named Brujon? Well . . . you hang around Montparnasse . . . Yeah, yeah, yeah. Should I call him instead? Thank you.”

Well, that was slightly unproductive.

“I’m simply curious in the case, Montparnasse. Is Brujon associated with you guys? Oh, really? Thanks.”

Hm. He was, but he wasn’t part of their gang. Made sense, he supposed. He picked away at his chapped lips, before returning to his dorm.

Feuilly said nothing while he entered, and neither did Enjolras. However, he felt inclined to say something. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I-I know you were worried.” He took a deep breath, knowing what he had to say, but not how to say it. “And I shouldn’t have snapped, but it’s just.”

“Enj. It’s okay.” Feuilly didn’t get up from where he was laying, but he reached out a hand. “You were stressed.”

“But that doesn’t make it okay!” he replied. “I know I was stressed and tired, but I didn’t need to take it out on you. And you were right, it was the case.”

Feuilly sighed, before sitting up. “I’ve known you since we were in middle school. You have your habits. I suppose I should’ve known to give you a wide berth when you were like that. And I’m sorry too, for provoking you.”

“It’s okay, I was in the wrong.”

His friend pulled him into a quick hug. “Now get some rest. Even if we don’t have early classes, I don’t want to see you up at two again,” he teased.

“Okay, okay,” he said, pretending to pout. He went about his nightly routine, and flopped onto his bed, snuggling into his blanket.

For once he was not thinking of other things. For once he settled into a blissful sleep that was without stress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was kind of hard to write o_O
> 
> anyways enjolras is stubborn, just like his family! please sleep and stop drinking so much coffee
> 
> let me know if i wrote any of these characters too ooc, just trying to portray them well.
> 
> one day enjolras will find out the truth about grantaire, but today is not that day.
> 
> let me know your thoughts! i love seeing comments!


	6. Méfie-toi de la langue scandaleuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eliza studies the columns and scandals of Callender to try and find a motive

Eliza thumbed through her textbook, poring over the vocabulary. She jotted down some of the words, before looking up. Only 1:00. Not bad, not bad. After all, she only had to read to page 102. She might’ve had other things to do, but as she looked at the calendar, she realized they weren’t due until at least 3 days later. She could get away with a day of relaxation, or at least of one not focused on her homework.

Stretching, she got up and walked around her little dorm, stopping to look at a picture taken when she was a freshman in high school. This was at their vacation home in Saratoga, and she was grinning widely as she stood next to her sisters. She smiled as she spotted her father carrying a tiny Philip, who was only three years old. Eliza had bunny ears behind her sister Peggy’s head, and her other sister Angelica was next to their mother. She looked a bit sad, and Eliza realized that this was the summer after their mother had lost the triplets. Pushing that aside, she realized both how much she and her sisters had changed in the five years.

_“You may hate your sisters now, but you will realize that you have an unbreakable bond when you are older,”_ her mother had said. At the time, she was fed up with Peggy, who was always whining and prodding and being nosy. She laughed to herself as she realized that Peggy could still be all of these things, but it was bearable and sometimes her nosiness could be useful.

_Mom was right. We do have an unbreakable bond._ Their relatives used to joke that they were practically triplets, born one year right after the other. Always close when they were children, and closer than before right now. She smiled once more, remembering how Peggy yanked at her hair ribbons and how she fought with Angelica. _They might’ve been pains in the butt but they’re my pains in the butt._

“I can’t believe there will be another addition to the family soon,” she murmured as she brushed her fingers over the picture. Once again, her mom was pregnant, and she was secretly hoping for a girl. A girl that she and her sisters could dote over, and teach how to get back at their brothers. It was enough to make her have a goofy grin on her face.

Her phone dinged and she picked it up to see a text from Peggy, who was asking if she wanted to hang out later. She replied with _sure i’m free i have a class later but after 3 i’ll be free._ Ah, school was nice, but sometimes it was hard to get free time. Luckily, Eliza knew how to manage her time well, and well, she had nothing to do.

So she might as well waste her time on the never-do-well of the columns, James Callender.

In fact, the man had been at the back of her head ever since she helped Alexander with that case. She didn’t know why, but she was intrigued. And if Alexander was interested, then so much the better. So she clicked away on her laptop, clicking on Callender’s Wikipedia page. Apparently he was famous enough to warrant that.

Oh--he was _Peggy’s_ age. A year younger than both her and Alexander. A young youth of 18 who ventured to create a newspaper centered around gossip--and paid with his life, she supposed. Eliza noticed that he had a whole section dedicated to his scandals. She clicked it, and saw all the controversies and scandals he’d landed himself in. The first one was from several years ago.

That’s when she realized: _I know this man!_ The year after Rensselaer was born, Callender had made headlines for criticizing the government. Well, slandered was more like it. There were harsh insults, the less severe of which were read out. The most memorable was of course calling the president “fat, arrogant, anti-charismatic, and a national embarrassment.”

She scrolled through the many controversies and scandals Callender had managed to get himself into. Some trouble with funding for his paper, something to do with exposing people’s secrets and blackmailing them. As she scanned the page, she spotted Alexander’s name hidden among the paragraphs. Eliza pushed it aside. Surely it wasn’t anything serious.

More scrolling. Jesus, he was only eighteen when he died. Why were there so many things to wade through?

She looked up. 1:50. Class was only 10 minutes away. Panicked, she grabbed her things and ran out the door. As she ran into the lecture hall, she barrelled into someone. “Oof!” she said as she bounced off the guy. “Oh, I’m sorry, I--”

“No worries,” the guy said, helping her up. “You didn’t hurt me one bit.”

Eliza smiled at the guy in front of her. Tall and handsome, with an entrancing smile. “Well, uh, I’d better sit down for the lecture.”

“Come sit with me.” She blinked, stunned by this request.

“Sorry?”

“Come sit with me,” he repeated, before walking to some seats around the middle of the lecture hall. “I promise I don’t bite,” he called.

She tentatively followed him, before sitting next to him. “I don’t even know your name!” she whispered nervously.

“John André, at your service,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it. Her heart fluttered. Surely Alexander wouldn’t mind? But were they even dating? True, they had gone on a date, but it was interrupted by Alexander’s wish to research the case. And she supposed she was now Alexander’s girlfriend. She had said so herself. So yes, they were dating. She texted him, sent him hearts day and night. But this wasn’t romantic, was it?

God, feelings were complicated.

She tried to focus on the lecture instead of the case, or André sitting next to her. However, he would occasionally lean in and whisper something witty, or sappy, or something. It was getting very difficult to concentrate.

_His voice, his eyes, my God, his_ smile. Her heart fluttered as his hand brushed hers. _Say something, say something,_ she kept telling herself. She was taken, and she knew Alexander wouldn’t take kindly to her being involved with this guy. Even if she was conflicted about what she and Alexander even _were_ , she was sure that it wouldn’t be fair to Alex to lead him on while going behind his back with André.

“Um, I’m ta-” Eliza’s voice caught in her throat as André leaned in to whisper something conspiratorially. “John, I’m taken.”

He chuckled softly. “Is that so?”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Everyone knows who you are, Elizabeth Schuyler.” _Shoot._ Everyone knew the Schuyler sisters. More importantly, everyone knew her sister, Angelica Schuyler. “You are coveted, desired by the entirety of the college.”

She scoffed. “I’m not Regina George. This isn’t _Mean Girls_ or _Heathers_.”

André again chuckled. “And yet both men and women desire you, and would do anything to even talk to you.”

“Again, this isn’t a 90s high school movie. I don’t know most of the people here, and they don’t know me.”

He seemed to ignore her and continued on. “You are like Psyche, desired by many, yet untouchable. There are many who would say you are merely trying to get others to leave you alone so you don’t have to deal with their advances.”

She gaped at him, aghast. “I--” but he silenced her with a finger to her lips. The thought of biting it came to her mind.

“I never said I thought those things. If you are taken, then I needn’t concern myself with the truthfulness of your words. However, whoever your Eros is must be careful, lest those infatuated with you try and take them down.”

Eliza scowled, her vitriol diminished but her distrust still not fully banished. “My _Eros_ , if that’s how you insist on calling him, is perfectly capable of defending himself against college students.” Even the very concept was laughable. She was not desired, nor did she wield some sort of power over others. And even if her sister commanded the social circle, there was no _Mean Girls_ dynamic to be had.

André’s only response was a smirk and a shrug.

The lecture passed with little other distractions or fanfare, and she exited, nodding a bit to André. A gentleman, she supposed, though his words were little to be wary of.

“Excuse me, are you Elizabeth Schuyler?”

She turned around. Two freshmen, a boy and a girl. “I am.”

“Well, I heard you’re single, and my brother has a crush on you, and--”

Eliza waved her off as she recalled André’s words. “I’m sorry, I’m taken.”

The boy glared at his sister. “I told you not to tell her!”

“Well someone has to play wingman!”

“Perhaps it would’ve been best to ask him first,” she told the girl sharply. “After all, it’s their crush, therefore, their decision.”

“If you say so,” the girl responded, rolling her eyes.

Eliza sighed, before heading towards her dorm. However, the boy caught up with her, seemingly embarrassed. “I’m sorry for the question, but . . . are you really taken?”

She smiled a bit. “Yeah, I am.”

“I can’t believe Cassidy told you,” he fumed, still walking with her. “I mean, I specifically told her not to!”

“Sometimes sisters can be a real pain in the butt,” she replied, reminiscing on her sisters. “But they’re family, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “You think there are other people I’ll have a chance with.”

She laughed. “Dude, there are a lot of students attending. I believe you’ll find someone.”

“Thanks.” The boy grinned, before running off. She smiled, and thought he was kind of adorable in a dorky kind of way.

I probably should’ve asked his name. Oh well. Eliza walked to her dorm, before plopping in her chair and turning on the TV so she could watch whatever came on aimlessly.

“In Albany the weather will be--”

“Oh, George, don’t go! I love--”

“But wait! There’s more! If you--”

“Update on the murder of James Callender--” She froze, her hand still on the button to change channels. Hmm?

“It appears that Callender was shot with a dart containing a deadly toxin . . .” Interesting. 

The calculated move got Eliza thinking. If he’d gotten in trouble with the government so much, would they have tried to secretly assassinate him?

It was too funny to not laugh. The government? Assassinate someone, when it would be hard to explain away if they got caught (and they certainly caught someone)? Besides, Brujon was the suspect, and she doubted he was a government official. Hell, she even helped Alexander research him.

Yet there had to be a reason. Perhaps he was simply too controversial. She looked at his scandals on his Wikipedia page again, trying to connect the dots. But there were none to connect. There seemed to be no connections between most of the scandals (she skipped over the one involving Alexander). All Callender did was get in trouble with the government, with his school, and even with foreign countries. Yet each time it was for something different and unrelated.

Maybe she was looking too much into it.

The door turned, and she started, instinctively switching to another tab, which happened to be a YouTube video. Unfortunately Peggy seemed to have caught her switching, and she wondered what would come out of her nosy sister’s mouth.

“Ooh, have you been texting Alex?”

“Peggy, I don’t text people over my laptop.”

“Well, have you been chatting with him?”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Admit it, you’ve been talking with him and been all mushy.”

“Peggy!”

“I know how you are,” she said, laughing. “So when are you two gonna fuck?”

“Peggy!” she replied, this time more mortified.

“Hey, a lot of people do it. The question is if, and then, when.”

She had never even _thought_ of that when she first met Alexander. Even if she did feel like it, it was definitely too early. And she said as much.

“Again, the question is when, if ever.”

“I can’t believe I’m related to you.”

“You love me. Don’t try to deny it.”

Eliza scowled playfully at her. “I love you, but we are not speaking of this particular conversation again.”

Peggy stuck her tongue out, before asking, “So are you ready for our girls’ night out?”

“I can get ready quickly.” She began brushing out her hair before quickly tying it up in a half ponytail. After she put on some starfish earrings, she grabbed her phone and her wallet and stuffed them in her back pockets. “Who else is coming?”

“Oh, Angelica, Kitty, Dolley, and this other girl Kitty knows.”

“Sweet.” They headed out, and Eliza locked the door behind them.

~*~

Eliza was practically a tomato. “Peggy, do you have to ask everyone that question?”

“It’s a valid question! Plus, you’re not on the receiving end of it!”

Angelica laughed. “She’s got a point, Betsey.”

She pouted, sticking her tongue out at her sisters. “You two are impossible.”

“If you want I can pull your hair again,” Peggy volunteered. Eliza, feeling a bit wild, flipped her off, which elicited a bout of laughter from both her sisters.

“Betsey has learned to bite!” Angelica said, looking towards the door where Kitty and her friend were walking in. “Kitty! You’re just in time.”

Kitty smiled as she settled in at their table. “This is my friend Maria Lewis!” Maria simply waved at them, as they waited for Dolley to arrive.

Eventually, all six of them were there, and Eliza watched Angelica order for them. As they waited for their food, Maria introduced herself. She appeared to still be in high school, probably a year or two younger than Peggy, took an interest in studying literature, and was a bit reserved.

“So, how did you two meet?” Angelica asked once their food arrived.

“Well, Maria was new in town, and she’s my neighbor, so I thought, why not welcome her formally?” Kitty said, grinning at her friend. “And after that, we bonded after we had to escort a spider out of her house.” This elicited a small deal of laughter.

Eliza tipped her head to one side, engrossed in a story Peggy was telling about her day in school. “Y’know, Peggy, I didn’t think your school tales could get any wackier, but they have.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault my class is weird!” Peggy retorted, before continuing with her story.

As the night wore on, Eliza thought of the perfect story to tell. “Hey, do you remember the lake incident?” she asked, a mischievous look on her face.

“Oh no . . .” Angelica whispered, a grin slowly spreading on her face, while Peggy burst out into laughter.

Kitty and Maria were intrigued, and Dolley asked, “What’s the lake incident?”

“Well,” she began, “it was the summer after John was born. We went to our vacation home in Saratoga, and there’s a lake there. A small one, but there’s a lake. So, our dad suggested we all go swimming, and before we headed to the lake, Peggy suggested we prank our parents by pretending there was a lake monster.

“I was gonna be the one who discovered the monster, and Peggy and Angelica would act as the monster. We had some kinks to work out, so we went swimming as usual. Three days later, it was set for action, and I went to the lake, while Peggy and Angelica ‘declined’ to go, so they could prepare the monster.” At this point her sisters started giggling.

“So I told my parents there was a lake monster, and they ran over to the dock. However, Angelica and Peggy weren’t in the costume. Instead, they were running away from an animal that they’d apparently agitated. They dived into the lake, but it turns out they were being chased by a moose, which dived in after them.

“The funniest thing is that it was a baby moose who simply wanted to play with them. My parents have never let them live that down.” Angelica and Peggy were full on laughing now, and so were Kitty, Maria, and Dolley.

“In my defense, I was eight,” Peggy said, pausing to wipe away her tears.

Eliza smirked. “You thought it was an actual monster. Had you never seen a moose before?”

“No! I was eight!”

She laughed, as Angelica and Peggy told their own stories in retaliation. The memories stirred inside of her, and it felt good to retell these stories and be able to laugh at the sheer stupidity of some of them.

The night drew to a close, and they all had to part ways. Angelica drove her and Peggy back to the college dorms, and once they were in their dorm they headed immediately for the bathroom. Eliza began brushing her teeth, while Peggy headed for the shower.

It was probably 10:00 by the time they were both done with their nightly routines. She reached for her phone, to find several new texts from Alexander.

_Hey are you there I wanted to ask you something_  
_Has Peggy asked you if you’ve done the dirty_  
_I told her no and she seemed disappointed_  
_Does she ask everyone that?_

She laughed softly before replying: _sorry i was out with a couple of friends. yeah peggy does that to everyone she even asked angelica. i’d expect nothing less from her._ Pausing, she wondered if she should ask about the case. However, she was tired, and she presumed Alexander would be too. But she needed to ask something. _do you think there was a motive behind callender’s murder._ Satisfied, she put down her phone, and closed her eyes, drifting into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeesh i'm bad at uploading every wednesday
> 
> anyways oh look our girl eliza's taking center stage!
> 
> callender is in fact peggy's age irl! perhaps i should've aged him up but i thought it would be cool to stick to the details this time around
> 
> alexander was either two years older than eliza or he was the same age. i chose for them to be the same age.
> 
> no i'm not sure if moose are in the new york region i just wanted something funny
> 
> if you can spot the hamilton reference i'll give you a virtual cookie
> 
> also the line "betsey has learned to bite" is from the book my dear hamilton you should read it


	7. Distrait de chasser Daphné

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eponine spends time with friends and pines for Marius from afar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for some flashbacks to child abuse

Eponine frowned as she looked at her Starbucks cup. “It can’t be that hard to spell my name, can it?”

“Sure it can, Nin,” Grantaire said from where he was sitting. “Be grateful that it at least looks somewhat like your name. I got ‘granulated sugar.’ How the fuck do you get ‘granulated sugar’ from ‘Grantaire’?”

“Y’know, I think they were just messing with you.”

“Well I think your names are brilliant,” Azelma said, sticking her tongue out. “Whoever wrote ‘Epipen’ on your cup is a genius.”

She blew a raspberry at her sister. The name didn’t bother her as much, though she sometimes resented her mother for giving her such a unique and uncommon name. _Thankfully she never named André or Benny, or they might never have heard the end of it._ Kids were cruel. “I’m still sure you could sound it out phonetically. Like your name, Zel.”

“I’m just glad they didn’t mess up my name.”

“It was never hard.”

“Fuck you both. I got ‘granulated sugar,’” Grantaire groaned. “It’s not hard to spell my name either. Not like it’s uncommon.”

Azelma laughed while Eponine shook her head. “R, that’s your last name. Who gives their last name for a Starbucks order?”

“Force of habit.”

She shook her head again, earning her a punch in the arm. “You could’ve given them your first name. Then they have less of an excuse to mess it up.”

He shuddered. “And announce to the world that my name is Lawrence? I’d rather not.”

Azelma shrugged. “I think it’s a nice name.”

Grantaire scowled, but he didn’t seem too upset. They sat around, waiting for the others to come. Of course, they all came early, seeing as they were close friends and wanted some time to themselves. “So,” he said after a couple minutes. “Where’s the little man?”

“Gav’s hanging out at a friend’s house,” Eponine said, taking a sip from her cup. “Anyways who do you think is gonna come last?”

“If Mars is coming alone, I’m betting on him. He had a terrible sense of direction.” Azelma fiddled with a strand of her hair. “You think someone so interested in taxes and the law would also have some life skills, but apparently not.”

Grantaire chuckled. “That is why he is living with Courf, although I pity the man. Also, Mars? That’s a new one.”

“Use it as much as you can, Marius hates it.”

“Zel!” Eponine laughed. “Oh, hey, here comes Feuilly.”

They waved to their friend as he entered the Starbucks. He waved back and went over to order something.

“I wonder what his name will be.”

“Maybe they’ll stop trying to write actual words and write down ‘Fuhyee’.”

Feuilly scowled at them. “You guys, I can hear everything you’re saying. And my name is not pronounced ‘Fuh-yee.’”

“Whatever you say,” Grantaire said, shrugging. The group shifted the chairs around so Feuilly could sit down.

“By the way, if Enjolras actually takes that break I recommended to take, please keep him away from caffeine. He does not need it.”

Eponine nodded. “And by recommended you mean you forced him to take a break.”

“Naturally.” They all laughed at that. In the few years that she’d known Enjolras, he’d proven to be hard-working, but stubborn, and perhaps not aware of things like hunger or fatigue. He was also very reliant on caffeine to get through the day, a thing that exasperated Feuilly.

She watched the door, to see who would come in. As Azelma and Feuilly chatted animatedly about social work and all that entailed, Grantaire fiddled around with what she presumed to be a hidden drinking canteen. Typical. He began talking about a new project he was starting, and also thinking about making a new ensemble, as in his words, “no one in the Conservatory seems to have been blessed by Apollo himself, and instead have been cursed with the inability to keep time.”

“That’s a long-winded way of saying they suck and their rhythm is shitty,” she commented.

“It hurts being their piano accompaniment,” he sighed, tapping his fingers on the table. “I know it’s mandatory for all freshmen to join, but it seems more like the Fields of Punishment rather than Asphodel.”

“Oh, are you talking about the Conservatory ensemble? I played the clarinet for them. Never again.” Feuilly shook his head. “I did not think it would be so hard to even tune. And that’s saying something.”

Azelma interrupted their conversation by pointing at the door. “Enjolras came!” At the same time, Feuilly’s order was done, so the barista yelled out his name.

He came back looking disappointed yet resigned, just as Enjolras sat down. “‘Fool’. At least it isn’t ‘question mark question mark question mark’ like the past several times.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I am still waiting for the day your cup returns as ‘frisbee.’” Feuilly pinched him in retaliation.

“I thought you’re used to ‘question mark question mark question mark’. It’s not like everyone knows French and can deduce how to spell your last name from ‘Fuh-yee’,” said Azelma, her feet now on the table. Eponine gently scolded her and told her to put her feet down.

“For the last time, my name is not pronounced like that! And I hate it when they write ‘question mark question mark question mark.’” His eyes narrowed as both Eponine and Azelma started laughing. “What?”

Eponine said nothing, and simply handed her phone to Feuilly, pointing to her contacts. He scanned the screen before his eyes widened. “Eponine!” he cried out, glaring at her. “You did not!”

“It’s been saved as your contact name for a couple months now.”

He sputtered angrily, though she supposed he wasn’t too mad. “‘Ponine, you know how to spell my name. Please spell my name correctly.”

“Nah.” It was too fun.

Grantaire, who had been chatting animatedly with Enjolras, peeked over Feuilly’s shoulder. “Wait a minute, do you have me saved as ‘lawrence the bastard’?” She said nothing. “Nin! I thought we were friends!”

“I could change it to ‘granulated sugar’”

“That’s even worse!”

Enjolras looked up from where he was. “I presume you have kept my name as is?”

She nodded, which only set off both Grantaire and Feuilly. “Relax, you two. I haven’t found a name stupid enough for him.”

“And she keeps mine as ‘azelma’ because she wouldn’t dare give me a stupid name. Right, ‘Ponine?” asked Azelma from where she was.

Grantaire grinned wickedly. “If you have the time, please, please enter Apollo’s name as ‘angelass’.”

“No promises.”

They continued to chat away amiably as the others trickled in. First Combeferre, followed by Bahorel, Montparnasse, and Jehan. Then Courfeyrac, who drove Marius. Finally came the Incorrigible Trio, as Courfeyrac liked to call them.

“Hey, Enj came for once!” said Courfeyrac, clapping him on the back.

“It’s been too long,” added Bahorel. “Great to see you, Chief.”

“Go get your coffee,” Feuilly said, shooing them away. “Oh, and ‘Ferre, get a decaf coffee for Enj, will you?”

“Got it.” Enjolras muttered something under his breath but didn’t react otherwise.

It was probably 10 minutes later when everyone had received their drinks. She had a good laugh when Courfeyrac blew up over his name being spelled “Cuferaque” (“CUFERAQUE? _CUFERAQUE?_ IT’S COURFEYRAC!”) and gently patted Jehan on the back when their drink came back as “John.” It was nice to be away from all the stress, all the work, and all the responsibilities she had. To spend time with friends . . . what a way to spend a Saturday.

“Grantaire, what are you doing?” Eponine looked up to see Grantaire with a shit-eating grin on his face and Enjolras giving him a skeptical look. “I know that look well, my friend. This does not bode well.”

“I have only been struck by a Muse,” he replied innocently. Courfeyrac, apparently wanting to stop the tomfoolery, grabbed Grantaire’s phone out of his hands.

“R! Why is my name ‘cuferaque’?”

“Because it’s funny.”

“Fuck you.”

Grantaire only grinned widely, which prompted everyone else to ask if he’d been messing with their contact names. “You will learn in due time” was his only response.

Eponine sat at the table, occasionally chiding Azelma, and chatted away with Marius. It was hard to maintain a conversation when you had a crush, and it was definitely hard for her. Even though they were childhood friends, and she probably knew him better than anyone else at the tables save for perhaps Azelma, it wasn’t like she wasn’t focusing on his hair, his eyes, his smile.

God, why was everything so hard when you were in love?

It must’ve been noticeable, because Azelma leaned over her shoulder to whisper, “Someone’s in looooove.”

“Shut it, Zel.”

“I’m only telling the truth!”

She scowled. Her crush wasn’t that obvious, was it? It’s not like she was constantly mooning over Marius. Then again, Azelma knew she had a crush since they were young. Sometimes having someone to talk to wasn’t always the best thing.

Still, even if it wasn’t obvious, it was still there. And with every second passing by, she seemed more and more distracted, even almost grabbing Enjolras’ cup by mistake. He grabbed her hand before she could, clearing his throat. Eponine realized what she was about to do and reddened. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled.

“No problem. Hey, can I talk to you about something?”

Sure, why not? Anything to take her mind off of _him_.

“So, I asked Montparnasse about your father’s gang.”

Oh. They were going to talk about _that_. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I really hope ‘Parnasse didn’t tell you to ask me. I don’t know everything about them.” That was a lie. As the leader’s daughter, she knew the inner workings. Had even worked for them a few times. It was something she really hoped to forget.

“We don’t have to talk about it--”

“No, no, you’re fine. Did you want to ask something?”

Enjolras cleared his throat, before continuing with his question. “I asked about Brujon, and Montparnasse said that he’s associated with _Patron-Minette_ , but he’s not a part of it. Do you think your father’s gang is behind the two murders?”

She thought about it for a bit. Brujon often did his own thing, but was known to have acted on Thénardier’s orders. That was a surprise. Her father was a seedy-looking man, with even less muscle than a stick. Granted, he could be quite charismatic, but if Brujon even took one swing at him . . .

“Well, I suppose he could’ve been. Brujon acts on his own, but he’s been known to respond to higher ups before. One of which is my father. If Claquesous really killed Mabeuf, then it could stand to reason that he ordered both of them to kill someone.”

He was tapping his fingers on the table. “But why? Why would they need to be killed? Does your father not like them? Or does he kill for fun? Or for money?”

“I suppose they’ve ruled out manslaughter and the like?”

“Of course.”

“I can tell you one thing about my ‘father,’” she said, sneering at the word “father.” “He does nothing for fun. Everything he does is for money. Killing Mabeuf must mean he stands to gain a lot of money.” Eponine shook her head in disgust. “And honestly, if you could start calling him Thénardier or something, I’d feel much better. That asshole is not my father.”

Enjolras nodded. “Of course.” He began typing away at his laptop, before reaching for Eponine’s coffee. “Do you mind? I don’t care if Feuilly yells at me, I just need something.”

“Be my guest. It’s our little secret,” she replied, winking mischievously.

Before Enjolras could even take a sip, Feuilly’s eagle eyes caught him. “Hey! What did I say about your caffeine intake?”

He rolled his eyes. “Relax, it’s not like I’m downing 5 gallons of coffee at once.”

“No caffeine for you, sir, do you remember?”

“I would like to point out that I am an adult and therefore you cannot control what I drink.”

Unfortunately, he was so distracted by his conversation that he didn’t notice Bossuet stealing his laptop. As soon as he noticed, he groaned. “Bos, I need that laptop!”

“Not right now you don’t. I thought we agreed today was supposed to be fun!”

“Work is fun.”

“And I have hair.” Bossuet shook his head. “Stop worrying about school for a while and chat with us. It’s been a while since we’ve just got together and relaxed.”

Enjolras muttered insults under his breath but understood that he was outmatched. Now that the matter at hand had been resolved, the attention turned to Courfeyrac, who was ranting about something that had happened yesterday.

“ . . . and he calls me out, right in front of the class! It was so embarrassing!” His face was red with anger and it was clear he’d been ranting for a while.

“What happened to relaxing, Courf?” Marius said from where he was sitting, a hint of a smirk on his face. Courfeyrac sputtered, pretending to look offended.

“Betrayed by my own roommate!” he cried, placing a heart on his chest while Marius laughed, an easygoing laugh, one not easily coaxed out of him. (And Eponine loves it, and Eponine wants to hear more of it, and--) Everyone else laughed along with him, and she remembered how much fun it was to hang around _Les Amis_ , even if sometimes they were a pain in the ass.

Musichetta kept glancing towards the door, as if she was looking for someone. “I invited Cosette over,” she said when asked. “Do any of you speak French?”

Bahorel, Combeferre, Enjolras, Marius, and Jehan nodded, while everyone else shrugged. “I mean, if taking it for two years in high school and promptly forgetting it afterwards counts,” said Grantaire.

“I don't think so, but I guess we'll see,” she replied, pointing to the door. “That must be her.”

Eponine looked up from where she was playing tic-tac-toe with Azelma. Her breath caught in her throat. It had been a while since she played with the blonde girl now smiling at their friend group. She still remembered her first memory of Cosette.

_“Get lost, you waste of space. Honestly, I don’t even know why we agreed to take you in. Your mother can’t even pay for you. That’s what she gets for being a whore, I guess.”_

_Cosette was crying, trying desperately to hide it from Samantha Thénardier, whom she could not, would not call her mother. A smack rang through the air._

_“Quit your whining, if you know what’s good for you! Ungrateful brat.” She shoved Cosette away, and told her to make herself useful. Cosette, who could not lift a full pail of water. Cosette who was a tiny child of four. Cosette who was sniffling, whimpering for her mother, her true mother._

_Eponine was watching from behind a chair. Mama wouldn’t scold her, she never did. She and Azelma were Mama’s babies, her darlings. They were good girls, as Mama said. If Cosette was being told off, then surely she’d been a bad girl. Yet she couldn’t ignore the girl’s wails growing louder and louder. So she ran out and grabbed Cosette’s arm._

_“Do you wanna meet my sister?” she asked, smiling at the girl who was supposed to be her sister. Cosette, forgetting her misery, nodded tentatively._

_They ran off to the room Azelma and Eponine shared, where Azelma was toddling around. She grinned when Eponine brought Cosette in. “Hi!” she babbled, walking over to the newcomer. “Hi!”_

_Cosette wiped away her tears, and managed a smile for Azelma. “Hello. What’s your name?”_

_“Azelly!” Though Azelma was proclaimed by her parents to be smart, it was clear she couldn’t quite pronounce her name correctly._

_Eponine giggled. “Her name’s Azelma.”_

_Cosette nodded. “Azelma. That’s pretty.”_

_And after that, it was a case of cheering her up whenever Mama hit her. She often wondered who Cosette’s mama was, but she never asked. It would only cause Mama to yell at her more._

_It was confusing, wondering why Mama hit Cosette when Cosette was never a bad girl. She was a good girl, in fact. A very good girl. And her very best friend._

_She sang off-key lullabies Mama sang to her and Azelma to Cosette. She let her play with her dolls when Cosette was down. And she discreetly helped Cosette with her chores. Even through all that, she was still Mama’s darling. She got all the fancy clothes, all the hugs, all the kisses._

_Eponine never forgot how Cosette’s lip wobbled when she was refused food, clothes, or affection. Where was her Mama? she wondered, again and again. Perhaps her Mama was a bad woman too, to leave her daughter with someone who would hit her._

“Cosette,” she said, the memory still tucked away in her brain.

The girl, now older, stared at her. “‘Ponine?” she asked, unsure of who sat before her. “‘Ponine, it is you!”

“You remember.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Combeferre blinked. “You two know each other?”

Cosette glanced at him. “Her family . . . took me in.” Obviously Eponine knew that her family didn't really take Cosette in so much as they turned her into their unpaid, overworked servant, but that was something Cosette would tell in her own time. As for Cosette, she turned to the girl sitting next to Eponine. “Is it Azelma?”

Azelma grinned back at her. “Well if it isn’t Ms. Heavenly Lark.”

Eponine reached out to hold her hand. “What happened? I saw you taken away by this man, and we never saw you again?”

She blushed. “Let’s say I found a better life with that man, my Papa.”

“Your--” Her eyes moved towards the man conversing with the rest of the group. He was tall, and very well built, from the looks of it. Honestly, it was very intimidating. “Him?”

“He’s gentle and loving and good Eponine. If only he agreed to take you and Azelma away too.”

Eponine scoffed. “That might’ve been considered kidnapping. Plus, I had three brothers to take care of.”

“Three? Your mother had more children?”

“Yeah. They’re in the 4th grade now.” She looked at their friend group. “I should introduce you to my friends.”

Bahorel was grumbling about something, which amused Cosette’s father. “He’s so buff. Why is he buff? He’s like a buff grandpa.”

“You’re buff too, Baz,” Feuilly said, sighing.

“Yeah, but--he’s really buff.”

Feuilly muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

“Well, I suppose it’s time to introduce you to Cosette. Marius, you probably already know her.” Eponine pointed to Cosette. “Cosette, idiots. Idiots, Cosette.”

Joly scowled. “Do you have to introduce us like that?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Can you at least introduce us separately?”

“I _will_ use the names on the Starbucks cups.”

He rolled his eyes. “Forget I asked.”

They all introduced themselves to her, while Eponine whispered some commentary in her ear. “Joly has a cane, I believe one of his knees acts up from time to time. Bossuet also steals it to wave around. Don’t let him do that. Joly’s also a hypochondriac, but his happiness is contagious. Bossuet is very clumsy, please be careful with what you give him. He’s a kind soul but things tend to end up broken around him. Combeferre wears glasses but it’s also very easy for him to misplace them. They’re usually on his head. If you want to discuss nerd shit ask him. Whatever you do, do not give Courfeyrac glitter. He will make a mess. Actually, don’t give anyone glitter. Ask Courf about fashion or something.

“Jehan plays the flute, they’re an aspiring playwright and poet. If you make them a flower crown they will be very happy. Enjolras has a brilliant mind, so I’ve heard. He’s quite the activist. Just make him stay away from coffee. Keep Grantaire away from drinks unless you want to drag their drunk ass home. Amazing artist but he’s also annoying. Musichetta is one of my best friends, she helps control this band of idiots. She’s with both Joly and Bossuet, yes you heard that right, and Courfeyrac calls them the Incorrigible Trio. Am I missing anyone? Oh, yes, Bahorel. He prides himself on being well dressed, and on his muscles. You heard him complaining about your father being buff. And then there’s Feuilly. He’s an orphan, I don’t recommend asking about that, but he’s a brilliant fanmaker, and he helps rein Enjolras in. I guess Combeferre does too, now that I think about it.”

“Is your brother coming?” Grantaire asked, chewing on a bagel someone else had bought.

She shrugged. “Depends. I did say he could find me at Starbucks, but it’s most likely that I’ll have to pick him up.”

“Damn. I love seeing him.”

Bossuet shuddered. “No thanks. Don’t get me wrong, I love Gav, but he’s basically a mini Grantaire and he terrifies me. Also it’s too easy to get him on a sugar high.”

Eponine chuckled. “He is a terror.”

They continued to chat, and Marius and Cosette caught up with each other. She noticed how Marius seemed to edge closer towards Cosette, how his eyes softened and how his hands glided over hers. He seemed fixated on her. Was it possible?

No. No, it couldn’t be. One day he would love her. Right?

She tried to get those thoughts out of her head. Marius didn’t owe her anything, Marius didn’t owe her anything, Marius didn’t--

Of all the girls he could possibly fall for, she supposed Cosette wasn’t a bad choice.

It still hurt, of course.

Grantaire noticed her slightly changed demeanor, and handed her his drinking flask. “Want some?”

“R, we’re underage.”

“Suit yourself.” He took a swig, and smiled. “So, unrequited love, if I am to guess? The pains of pining after Narcissus?”

She snorted. “I don’t think Marius is in love with himself. But I suppose that’s the best comparison. And how are you doing with your Daphne, dear Apollo?” Perhaps those were the wrong people to say, but her grasp on Greek mythology was weaker than Grantaire’s.

“Alas, if only I was Apollo. To be as radiant and youthful and handsome as him! Make no mistake, I am not chasing my Apollo. No, he seems to not notice me. There is no chase, because how can I chase someone who is not even aware of my presence?”

A sigh escaped her lips. “How can you be so eloquent yet espouse some of the dirtiest words known to mankind?”

“I have my talents.”

“Sure thing, R.”

The rest of the afternoon passed by in a blur. Gavroche convinced his friends’ parents to drop him and his brothers off at the Starbucks, where he was welcomed by all, especially Cosette. (“Gav? Is that you? You’ve grown! And who are these two young gentlemen?”) Gavroche, being Gavroche, simply was irresistible. He and Jehan could charm their way into anything and anyone’s hearts. Within minutes he’d won over Cosette’s father, Jean Valjean.

And of course she said hello to her brothers. The people she’d vowed to protect her entire life. They laughed and hung out with Jehan and Combeferre and Grantaire and Benjamin repeated a word Courfeyrac said. (Which earned him a light slap from Eponine: “No swearing around my brothers!”)

There was one thing she resolved to do, and that was not think of Marius. No, instead she used the time to unwind, and catch up with Cosette. After all, they had not seen each other in ten years.

“ . . . so I came here, with my brothers. I couldn’t leave them behind.”

“Sounds amazing. I still wish Papa brought all of you.”

“I wish too, but I suppose what’s done is done. You should come over and hang out with us. Just us.”

Cosette beamed. “I would love to. Your brothers are adorable.”

“They are also little rascals, but I suppose you’re right.”

“You think we can ever leave behind _them_?”

Eponine did not have an answer. In fact, there probably was none. They both suffered at the hands of Lucas and Samantha Thénardier, and there was no turning back time. Not for Cosette, not for Eponine, and not for Gavroche and her brothers.

Still it didn’t hurt to hope, did it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops this is very long
> 
> i hope eponine described les amis correctly, it would be embarrassing to find out i got them all wrong
> 
> cosette, eponine, azelma, gavroche, andre, and benjamin deserve the world
> 
> you can find me at instagram, @phoen.ixical__ !


	8. La date parfaite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamilton decides to go on a “proper” date with Eliza

Alexander frowned as he flopped back on his bed. It was probably early October, and yet it was quite hot for the time. Interesting.

“Do you have an AC? It’s kinda hot.”

“Yeah, but it’s not that hot. It’s like, 70-something degrees.”

“It’s hot.”

“Whatever you say.” He turned up the AC and sighed. He liked Eliza (did he love her? like that?), but ever since their first date, she’d been over to discuss the case. She seemed less like a girlfriend and more of a partner in crime . . . for the case at least. Yes, the case was technically his passion, but perhaps it was time for a break.

Wow, that was weird. Usually he never took a break from anything.

Oh well. First time, he supposed.

“I wonder what’s going over on the West Coast,” Eliza said from where she was sitting, fanning herself.

“They’ve probably got their own force on the job.” After all, even though they found out some more about Thénardier, he was more concerned with the going ons of New York. California probably had their own shit to deal with.

She shrugged. “Wonder how they’re doing over there.”

“Hope they’re at least doing well.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Are you okay? You seem distracted.” She stuck her hand out in front of Alexander, who was kind of spaced out.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just, thinking.” He shook his head. _Ask her out ask her out ask her out,_ his brain was saying. It was kind of weird though. What was he supposed to say? _"Oh, yeah, I want to go on an actual date. Like a romantic one."_ Very eloquent.

She sat down on his bed with him. “Spit it out, Alex. I know that look on your face.”

“Well, I was thinking that we have been spending time together, but it’s been on this case. And I . . . I kinda ruined our first date.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You didn’t ruin our date. I didn’t mind researching the case. I didn’t mind it then and I don’t mind it now.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Alexander groaned in frustration. “I just want to give you a date you deserve. Like a romantic one.” He tried to think of the right words to say. “I know you like working with me, but I want to give you this. Right now, you are my beloved. It might change, but for now, I want to give you a break. And perhaps it’s for my peace of mind as well. Just . . .” He waved his hand, not knowing what else to say.

She smiled, before taking his hand. “I think that’s very sweet. Maybe we do need a break. How about we go to a restaurant.”

“Yeah. On like, a proper date.” Oh look, there was the stuttery mess of a boyfriend he was.

“Proper?” Eliza laughed. “What do you want us to do, go to a restaurant and only speak like how they did in the 1700s?

“That doesn’t actually sound too bad.”

“We both don’t have enough money to do that.”

He frowned. “Isn’t your dad . . . rich?”

“I told him I didn’t want his money. Not in a mean way, just, I want to make it on my own.”

“Hmm.”

He spent some time searching for a restaurant that was perhaps a bit on the higher end of prices, but not too expensive. While he did, Eliza talked a little bit about her childhood dog.

“I think you would’ve loved Pepper. He was eager and energetic, and he was an attention seeker. Very sweet.”

“Your dog sounds like a very fun dog to be around.”

“Yeah.” She sighed wistfully. “Sadly, he died when I entered high school. I kinda want another one but I don’t think the dorms allow pets. Maybe I have a picture.” Eliza hopped off his bed and grabbed her phone. She scrolled through perhaps hundreds of pictures before landing on one of a Border Collie with wide eyes and his tongue hanging out. “That’s him. That’s Pepper. I miss him every day.”

He nodded, looking at the picture. “He looks like a very good boy.”

“He was.”

“Maybe one day we’ll get a dog of our own.”

“One day.”

~*~

Eventually Alexander was able to find a restaurant that seemed decent enough. They drove to it, went inside, got a seat, and got the menu. As they were looking, Eliza noticed something.

“Why is it so empty here?”

“Beats me.”

“Hmm.” They continued looking until they found what they wanted, and placed their orders. Alexander ordered a medium rare steak, and Eliza wanted some salmon. It seemed to be fine from what he could see, though his girlfriend’s words were still at the back of his mind.

She started talking about the case, before he cut her off. “Remember? We’re taking a break from that.”

“Oh--right. Force of habit, sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

It was silent for a moment before Eliza asked, “So, did you have any childhood pets?”

“Nah, not really. Didn’t exactly have enough money for that.”

“So how’d you get to college here in New York? It’s not cheap.”

He remembered the day he found out his city had paid for him to go to college. New York . . . that was his dream. And it all felt like one when he boarded that plane with his belongings to travel to, at the time, what seemed like a world of hope and prosperity. A chance to make a name for himself.

Turns out this new world wasn’t exactly welcoming to immigrants.

“My city, well, it’s more of a smaller town, paid for me to go here. They thought I could be something. My writing, at least.”

“Wow. Your writing must be something.”

“Yeah.” What prompted that poem was still fresh in his mind. The wind. The howling wind, the pouring rain, the way his brother looked as they ran into the cellar. And when it was finally over, he stared at the scraps. The shreds, the splinters. Many lost everything that day.

And yet . . .

And yet, they gave to him. Why?

“Alex? Alex are you okay?”

He startled. He didn’t like to remember that day. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Tell me more about your town. Tell me more about yourself.”

“Well, I was born in a place called Nevis, down in the Carribean. My family wasn’t rich, but we managed to get by. I went to school, the same as any other kid. Then I got to college.” His story was painful, he didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want anyone to know that--

That he was a bastard. A product of something that was deemed unholy and inappropriate. It was used against him and James time and time again.

Eliza, to her credit, didn’t pry or ask further. It was just something he never wanted to speak about ever again.

They both were saved from exposing themselves any further when their food came. His stomach growled, and he quickly grabbed his knife and fork. This was going great. He cut off a piece of the steak, waiting to taste the sweet yet savory feeling of the delicious meat.

There was no such taste. It was disgusting.

Almost immediately he spat it out, while Eliza tried to swallow her salmon with much difficulty. The look on her face was clear: this food was not good. She finally succumbed and spit it all out into a napkin, and tried to rinse out the taste with water.

“Oh, gross, what the hell did they do to the salmon?” she asked, gagging a bit.

He shrugged, shuddering at the thought of the taste. “I don’t know, but the steak isn’t good either.”

“This food isn’t edible! What are the ratings?”

“Last time I checked, it was at least 3.5 stars.”

“That’s fake,” Eliza said, scoffing. “It has to be.”

He looked up the restaurant on Yelp. The reviews were poorer than he thought it would be. Although there were quite the compliments for 5 star reviews, there were also a hoard of people leaving scathing reviews on the restaurant. “Well, what do you know? It is quite terrible.”

She nodded. “Let’s get out of here, and go to a more decent place.”

“Do we have to pay?”

“I really don’t feel like getting arrested for something like this, as much as I don’t want to pay for crappy food.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Oh, he was gonna regret paying this much money.

They made their way to a cliffside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, while watching the sunset. It was beautiful, with the colors dancing across the sky as the sun slowly sank beneath the waves. The sheer spectacle of it all convinced Alexander that there was at least someone sentient behind the home he called Earth, and all the phenomena that dazzled it.

“I never thought it could be so pretty here,” Eliza breathed as she walked towards the edge of the cliff and sat down. “I don’t really associate ‘beautiful and awe-inspiring’ with New York City.”

He chuckled. “Clearly you have not been on top of a skyscraper, because the skyline is gorgeous in its own way.” Nights spent on top of a building with John were always the best. Sometimes they’d be joined by Gilbert and Hercules, but it was mostly just the two of them. Close friends, so close in fact that there were rumors about them.

Surely no one believed them, right? But they were true. And denying them only hurt himself and the one he loved.

_Stop. That’s in the past. You won’t make any stupid mistakes now._ He sat down next to Eliza, before grasping her hand. “Maybe later we can go somewhere else, and make up for that awful food,” he said, after several minutes passed by.

“I can work with that,” she responded, smirking. “Though, don’t worry about it. I can always cook something for you at your dorm.”

“Oh no no no no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. I can cook.”

“Alex, I want to cook.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

She shrugged. “We can decide later. Right now, let’s watch the sun set.”

_That sounds like a good idea,_ he thought, though he didn’t say it. Sometimes words were better left unsaid. That didn’t mean he always followed the advice he’d been given when he first came to New York, but if he felt like it, he did.

Slowly, the sun dipped beneath the waves, spreading out across the ocean as its rays pierced the clouds in the evening sky. And something possessed him, perhaps the majestic feel of the sunset, perhaps the way he felt, perhaps the way Eliza was looking at him, but it all led him to lean in, sure of himself, wanting to take in her sweet scent of roses, to perhaps plant a little--

“Ahhh!”

So maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come to the cliffside.

He grabbed Eliza’s arm, who was using her other hand to cling to a tuft of grass that was about to rip out any minute. In a moment of desperation, Alexander pulled sharply backwards, and Eliza was suddenly on top of him, and he felt really uncomfortable right then. So he helped her up, and they walked back to his car.

“Thanks for saving me,” she said as they were driving to a cafe they agreed on.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“It is something, Alex. I could’ve died.” She reached over to touch his hand. “I’ll always be grateful for that.”

The cafe was great. Their snacks were delicious (“Anything is a step up from _there_ ,” said Eliza), and they shared a strawberry smoothie, exactly how they did it in the movies. There was a moment where they leaned in too closely and bumped heads lightly. Although it hurt, he still laughed it off. Yes, taking a break was maybe what they needed most.

His mood soured when he realized he spent all his money on the restaurant, and didn’t have enough to pay for the cafe. Eliza was able to pay for it, but he felt as though he wasted his money on the restaurant. This frustration and disappointment lasted throughout the car ride home, though Eliza seemed to notice it. And yet, she seemed too scared or tentative, or anything.

Eventually she got the nerve to at least say something. “Alex . . . are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“I can tell something’s off . . .”

“Betsey, I’m fine.” He wasn’t though, not when he pressed ahead with no light of determination in his eyes, or when he ground out Betsey, the name of affection he used.

“What’s wrong?”

“I told you--” He never got to tell her what he told her, for there was a car parked in the middle of a road, and he had to slam the brakes in order to avoid crashing into said car.

They peered through the windshield to see what had happened. Though it was dark, streetlights illuminated the road well enough for them to see a man emerge from the car in front of them. Alexander reached into the storage space his car had and gripped the handle of a knife he always carried.

“Stand down,” the man said from where he was. “I’m only here to deliver a message.”

“Then say it,” Eliza spat out.

He walked right up to their car, and they got a good look at him. Broad shouldered, not too old, with a cigarette in his mouth. This man seemed awfully familiar . . .

“Brujon,” he whispered, gripping the knife handle ever harder.

“You’re a clever boy, aren’t you?” Brujon sneered. “Tell me, who’s the pretty lady over here?”

“The pretty lady can hear you, and is not amused,” Eliza hissed. “Now say what you have to say, or you can bug off.”

He laughed, throwing his head back. “She bites! I think I quite like you.”

“Enough waffling, get to the point,” Alexander said. “What do you want to tell us?”

This time he did not seem amused, or vaguely threatening. This time, he slammed his hands down on the car’s hood, and leaned in. “Stay out of the case, and out of our business. This is your first and final warning.”

“Hmph. Like he’s gonna stop us,” Eliza muttered under her breath. Alexander ignored her and looked directly at Brujon.

“We’re not involved in anything.”

“Liar. We know.”

“Have you been spying on us?” asked Eliza.

Brujon smiled, a smile that wasn’t inviting or warm, but rather creepy. “Let’s just say we don’t take kindly to people interfering in our business.”

Alexander paused, trying to figure out the right words. The question slipped past his mouth before he could stop it. “Who’s we?”

“You don’t need to know,” he sneered.

“Are you working with Thénardier?” he asked, once more letting the words slip past.

Brujon startled, his eyes flying wide. “What makes you think that?” he whispered, seeming scared.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He shook his head before reaching for something. “I am sorry, but I have revealed too much to you, even if by accident. I cannot let you leave al--hey!”

Alexander had already started the car back up again and turned around, trying to keep to a safe speed while hightailing it away from Brujon. As he did, Eliza looked behind them. “I don’t think he’s following . . .”

“Let’s take an alternative route, just in case,” he replied.

“Okay. I think I know one. Uh, turn left here . . .”

They eventually made their way back to the dorms, where they raced up to Alexander’s, and collapsed on his couch. John, who was still awake surprisingly, let out a squeak of alarm.

“You two okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexander said, waving him off. “Just a night scare.”

“I wouldn’t be too dismissive of that. Heard gangs are kidnapping people.”

“Well, we’re not kidnapped, are we?”

“Just . . . be careful Lexi.”

He nodded, before looking over to where Eliza was. She already regained her breath, and now propped herself up. “That was wild.”

Sensing something, John left the room, leaving just the two of them. Alexander sighed, wondering if she still remembered his frustration earlier, before the Brujon incident.

“Alex, before the thing, I--”

He waved her off. “Like I said, I was fine.” _Liar. Why won’t you tell her?_

“Well excuse me for wanting to know.”

“It’s just--I wanted to give you something perfect. And instead I screwed it all up.” He scowled. “Happy?”

“Alex.” She reached over and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault for everything. I couldn’t have been happier with how today went.”

“Butbutbut--what about the restaurant? And the cliffside? And Brujon? It all went wrong and--”

Eliza cut him off with a wave of her hand. “It’s not your fault. You were very sweet and thoughtful, and although today wasn’t perfect, I loved spending time with you. You tried very hard to make it a perfect day, and for me, the thought is all that counts.”

“I--okay . . .” he murmured, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault.

She stared at him for a moment, before reaching over to peck him on the lips. He stared back, feeling heat rising to his cheeks. “Oh,” he said stupidly.

“ _Oh_ ,” he repeated, when she cupped his cheeks, and pulled him in for another kiss, one which he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sjfkal;fjsda;lfj i really should plan ahead of time bc i am terrible at uploading on wednesday
> 
> i have a new work out! it's called oncoming shadows, and hopefully it'll update every sunday
> 
> also, i have school now, so i'll be rather busy. i'm also taking two aps, which means more workload. please be pateint with me!
> 
> hamilton's trying his best and i commend him for that


	9. Ruelles cachées et questions sans réponse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras seeks out Thenardier himself, despite the dangers

He stared at his notes. Something just wasn’t adding up. Eponine might’ve been able to confirm Brujon’s association, but everything seemed far too connected for his liking. _It’s starting to look like a conspiracy, and not a good one._ And he wondered whether he was pulling all this stuff out of his ass. This didn’t seem like a legal conspiracy, but rather one of the wacky ones that he scoffed at regularly. And even the more well thought out, more reasonable conspiracies were picked apart by him.

This whole case was definitely one of the crazier conspiracies.

Enjolras thought about how he’d go about picking apart conspiracies and theories. He did it often; it was a hobby of his. Although it did seem mean and mean-spirited, he didn’t mean it to be rude or whatnot. He simply wanted to point out the flaws, if he could find any. It was a sort of constructive criticism, one he gave out whenever people wanted it.

That being said, he had trouble keeping his thoughts to himself. It was easy to spend several minutes typing away at his computer picking apart the flaws one by one, and dismantling fan theories. And Feuilly had to pull him away, to remind him that he didn’t need to keep imprinting his beliefs and thoughts on everyone, and that people might not want him to critique people.

It was still a thing he was working on.

However, Feuilly never said anything about critiquing his own work, and he spent time picking apart everything he’d written down, trying to figure out the flaws in his arguments, and checking for weaknesses that could be exploited.

Yet everything came back to Brujon and Thénardier, and he couldn’t figure out anything here. This was something that had to be confirmed, in order for everything to either fall apart, or click into place. He just didn’t know what.

There could only be one answer to this: ask Thénardier.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Feuilly said when Enjolras brought it up to him. “Besides, it might not be the only answer. You could ask Eponine.”

“Eponine doesn’t know about motivations, or whether Brujon even acted on Thénardier’s orders!” He sighed in frustration. “I just need to connect the dots.”

“Could you connect the dots in a way that doesn’t involve you talking to Eponine’s super creepy father?”

He shook his head. As far as he could tell, talking to Thénardier was the only way to get the answers he needed.

Feuilly pinched the nose of the bridge. “I still think this is really stupid and that you shouldn’t do it.”

“You’re not my mom!” He put his head between his hands, trying so hard not to cry out of frustration. He knew what he was doing, he wasn’t a child! It was like Feuilly didn’t take him seriously.

His friend simply sighed. “I know I’m not. I’m just saying be care--”

“I will be careful! I’m not a child, I’m an adult. I’m in college, for God’s sake!” This irrational anger burned through him, as he slammed his hand down on his desk. The urge to throw something grew stronger and stronger, and he felt ever more angry as the minutes passed by.

Feuilly stared at him, before walking out of the room, further enraging and saddening Enjolras. He slammed his hand on his desk once more for good measure, before thinking of ways to contact Thénardier. The problem was, he didn’t know where to start. Perhaps Feuilly was right. Perhaps this was a stupid idea.

However, he was starting, and he couldn’t stop now. Besides, a tiny part of him wanted to spite his friend. And although he joked sometimes that Feuilly was 95% of his impulse control, it certainly felt like it right now, what with him planning to meet up with a gang leader who possibly ordered murder and Feuilly telling him that it was a stupid idea.

He hated when Feuilly was right.

The first order of business for him was to simply locate Thénardier so he could talk to him, face-to-face. He didn’t know any other contact info, and he certainly wasn’t going to look through a phone book in vain. Did anyone from Patron-Minette even have a phone book?

Montparnasse might have an answer, he thought, scrolling through his contacts to find the young man.

_“Hello?”_ Montparnasse asked. _“What do you want now, Vic?”_

Enjolras wasn’t a huge fan of anyone using his first name, but he supposed it was a curse he had to endure. “Montparnasse? Yeah, I was asking whether you could tell me where Thénardier might be?”

_“Does everything you ask me_ have _to be about that dick?”_

“Well, I think that’s just a coincidence.”

_“Look, I’m not your local Patron-Minette encyclopedia. Nin would be a better source than I am. Hell, Gav would be a better source than I am. I am not the end-all be-all.”_

“You have a point,” Enjolras admitted. “It’s just that . . . I don’t feel like, y’know, she’d know where her father is.” It was more so that he didn’t think Eponine would be very pleased with him if he brought up her father.

A pause. _“You like her, don’t you?”_

“What? No!”

_“You’re definitely hiding something, that’s for sure.”_

“I do not like Eponine Thénardier.”

Montparnasse laughed from his end. _“I believe you. If I’m being honest, Nin’s a beast. Take it from someone who has dated her. She’s awesome, but she’s also a force to be reckoned with.”_

“Exactly why I don’t feel right talking to her about _him_.”

_“Ah, so that’s what this is. Well, I doubt I’ll be of much help to you, but I remember we were in the alleyways alongside the small street that crosses Strausford and Avignon.” Another pause. “They’re probably not there though, I remember Nin telling me they moved, but I don’t know where.”_

He sighed. Perhaps it would’ve been better to ask Eponine after all.

It turned out that he didn’t need to wait very long. His phone rang, and seeing that it was Eponine, he picked up.

Enjolras immediately regretted it, as Eponine’s screaming alone was enough to make him wince. He didn’t even have her on speaker.

_“Victor Alexandre Enjolras! What the actual fuck are you thinking? Going to see_ him _? I thought Feuilly would’ve talked you out of this, but I guess I’m wrong, because ‘Parnasse just called!”_ He could hear her catch her breath, and braced himself for the rest of the scolding.

_“Honestly, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Please tell me you’re not actually going to see him.”_

“Eponine, please stop worrying. I’ll be fine.” The same resentment and anger he felt towards Feuilly was building up now.

From the other side of the phone, he could hear a low growl of frustration. _“Enjolras, you don’t get it! My father is incredibly dangerous. If he catches on to you catching on to him, you’re toast! There’s gotta be another way to find your information.”_

“There really isn’t. Unless you have clear answers on the going ons of Patron Minette and its associates?”

A pause. _“Okay, fine. But I really would like to not see you get murdered, so here’s a few precautions.”_

After Eponine gave him the needed precautions and warnings (with a few interjections from Azelma and Gavroche), he asked where Thénardier might be.

_“Try any of the old hideouts, the alleyways, or the older bars. The alleyways are your best bet though.”_

“Thanks.” He hung up, and got into his car (okay, it was Feuilly’s car, but he asked permission) to drive around the city to look for these locations. It wasn’t until he turned on the car that he realized that he probably should ask other people to go along with him lest he actually get murdered. Safety in numbers after all. So he turned off the car, got out, and went up to Courfeyrac and Marius’ dorm to ask Courfeyrac to accompany him on this quest.

After several knocks, Marius came to the door. “Whoisit?” he heard from his side of the door.

“The French Revolution,” he responded drily. “It’s Enjolras, Marius. Is Courf there? I need to talk to him.”

“If this is about the mess he made last Friday night, I promise you can spill glitter all over our dorm to get revenge,” Marius responded, opening the door and yawning widely. “Courf’s probably still asleep, catching up on all his missed hours of sleep. I just happened to wake up a couple minutes ago.”

His tank top and boxer shorts only served to prove his point. As Enjolras plopped down on one of the couches, Marius walked into what he presumed to be Courfeyrac’s door, and did something. He couldn’t quite see nor hear, but whatever it was, it seemed to work. Courfeyrac stumbled out wearing nothing but some boxer shorts, and glared at Enjolras. “Wha?”

“I have something to ask of you.”

“I don’t care what Pontifex tells you, you’re not spilling glitter in our dorm.” He yawned loudly, before crossing his arms. “But I can tell you’re not here about that. What did you interrupt my beauty sleep for?”

He found it a bit distracting (and slightly uncomfortable) with Courfeyrac’s chest on full display, so he simply said, “Firstly, please put a shirt on.”

“Damn, I thought you’d like my pecs. They’re kind of my defining feature,” he replied, puffing out his chest.

“That seems more like Bahorel’s defining feature, if not his biceps.”

Courfeyrac pouted before walking into his room and returning with a plain t-shirt pulled over his bare chest. “Spill.”

“I’m on a quest for information, and I thought you’d like to come with me.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna go on a quest for nerd shit. I already have enough to deal with during the weekdays.”

“It’s not that. I’m going to look for Thénardier.”

Suddenly Courfeyrac seemed interested. “‘Ponine’s father?”

Marius snorted from where he was. “Less father, more bastard. But yeah.”

Enjolras was slightly surprised by his friend’s language, but he didn’t comment on it. “Yes, him. I was hoping you’d come with me so I have less of a chance of ending up on a Buzzfeed episode or whatever. Are you in?”

“Enj. Enjolras. My dear friend. My dearest friend of eight years. Of course I’m in.”

“Of course, we might need another person in case they overpower the both of us.”

His friend scowled. “Must you ruin everything? I’d like to think about the ‘we bully Thénardier into giving us info’ scenario more than ‘he orders us to be dismembered’ scenario.”

“Nah, you’re gonna be bumped off more subtly, if what ‘Ponine tells me is true” Marius said, smirking ever so slightly.

“Thanks Marius, that really gives me comfort, knowing that I won’t be torn to shreds, but instead poisoned.” He rolled his eyes. “If you insist, Enj, but I hope that won’t ever happen.”

~*~

While searching for another person to accompany them on their trip, Enjolras also got chewed out by Feuilly for even going through with their plan. Suffice it to say that it didn’t go over particularly well. ( _“Courf? You too? Honestly, does no one in this group have any semblance of common sense?”_ )

He still let them drive his car, which is what he came down there for, to ask what Enjolras was planning to do with said car.

They convinced Grantaire to go with them, and while Jehan wanted to go, they had a play they needed to work on. “Group project woes, I suppose,” they said.

As they drove around the city, searching for the darker alleyways, Courfeyrac became more and more visibly nervous. He tried to hide it, but he wasn’t exactly succeeding. They drove by the old hideout Montparnasse described several times, and each time Courfeyrac seemed to sweat more and more. He was practically drenched by the time they reached another old hideout that Eponine told him about.

“Y’know, I think it would help if we actually got out and walked into one of these alleyways,” Grantaire said after they passed by all the points on the map.

Courfeyrac paled visibly. “There is no way you’re making me walk into one of those creepy alleyways. No way.”

Enjolras tugged at his arm. “I’d prefer if all of us went, in case things go wrong.”

“Exactly why I’m not going! I can be your getaway driver!”

“Or a messenger if Thanatos does take us,” Grantaire quipped.

“Not funny or helpful, R!”

He agreed that Grantaire wasn’t being particularly serious, though he supposed he was always like that. Taking life not too seriously, going with the flow, inserting his mythological metaphors wherever he saw fit. Enjolras was both equal parts impressed and exasperated at how Grantaire could wax poetic about Greek mythology and cuss out a person he didn’t like at the same time.

It was kind of amazing, honestly.

Luckily, he and Grantaire didn’t get murdered, and when they came back they shook their heads, much to Courfeyrac’s relief. This time he took the wheel and maneuvered through the tinier streets of Santa Clara. They were headed to a notorious spot for gangs to hide out, right in what Courfeyrac described as “the creepiest alleyway I’ve ever seen.” To everyone’s surprise, he actually got out with them when they went to explore, because he didn’t want to be alone in his car. Enjolras couldn’t blame him. This place was especially creepy.

“Not surprised if ghosts actually haunt this place,” Grantaire muttered, peering through the darkness.

“Oh great. Gangs _and_ ghosts. This day just gets better,” Courfeyrac whimpered from beside Enjolras.

He steadied himself, breathing deeply, as the place unsettled him too. “I’m sure it can’t be too bad. Besides, ghosts aren’t real. They’re just stories.”

Something clattered behind him, and both Grantaire and Courfeyrac pressed close to him, their eyes wide. He himself stiffened, but he tried to wave it off as a lone can being pushed out of a window. This place wasn’t haunted or whatever. And with their luck, they wouldn’t be killed by Thénardier.

Another noise, this time in front of them. It was seriously getting creepy now. He tried to speak but fear had apparently locked up his voice. Courfeyrac had started to whimper as he clung onto his arm, and he suspected that there might need to be a change of clothes really soon.

“What are you three doing here?” a gravelly voice asked.

All three of them screamed (though Courfeyrac would probably vehemently deny it), and clutched one another as they looked for the source of the voice. A man stepped forward, but not out of the shadows, so that he would not be seen.

Enjolras was the first to recover. “We are looking for Thénardier,” he said shakily. “We were hoping someone could lead us to him?”

A sharp, short laugh. “That’s not how it works. The bosses around here don’t answer to you, you answer to them. If they want to meet with you, you meet with them. If they don’t, you don’t. Simple as that.”

His tongue froze up. All his years of being in Debate Club and experience picking apart people’s arguments melted away in his terror and general discomfort in being in this dark alleyway.

The man laughed again. “I suggest you get out, before one of you gets hurt.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Grantaire whispered. “Especially when none of us have Baz’s manpower.

Enjolras was just about ready to agree. Forget Thénardier. He never wanted to come back to one of these alleyways again. Especially if they were filled with people hiding in the shadows threatening them. He’d had his fair share of physical altercations (mostly from protests and whatnot) but this was more than he could handle.

Before the three of them could hightail it out of there, someone else spoke up. “Leave them, ‘Sous. I believe one of them has something interesting to ask of me . . . and to tell me in return.”

“Thénardier.” Something about this man screamed Thénardier in every way. Perhaps it was the voice, the nasally voice that somehow had a hint of charisma to it. Or maybe it was the way he implied that he could mess you up if you crossed him. Either way, it unsettled Enjolras.

“You’ve got the right man. Come, let us talk at a more appropriate place.” With that, he walked away, and the three of them followed, plus this ‘Sous guy who he suspected was the mysterious Claquesous.

Both of his friends still grasped his arm tightly as they walked further into the deep, dark alleyway.

~*~

“So, what do you want from me?” Thénardier asked as he sat down. “Normally outsiders don’t go poking around our hideouts.”

Enjolras would’ve responded if it wasn’t for the presence of Claquesous, who seemed to be giving him a menacing look from beneath his mask.

“Ah, don’t worry about Claquesous, he won’t harm you. Not if you’re not a threat, anyways.” He laughed but Enjolras could sense the threat in his words.

“I was wondering about the recent murders, and this guy named Brujon,” he began, trying to remember Eponine’s precautions. “Don’t present yourself as a threat. Don’t leave yourself vulnerable. And most importantly, don’t reveal anything important about yourself.”

“Ah, poor Monsieur Mabeuf. What a shame. It seems like a bad idea to bump off such a humble man, one so devoted to his faith. Of course, sometimes he was a bit nosy, and poked around where he shouldn’t.”

“What?”

“There’s your first bit of information. Now, your side of the trade.” His eyes glinted. “How are my kids?”

Courfeyrac began to say something, but cut himself off. Thénardier chuckled. “I presume they are well?”

Enjolras said nothing. He didn’t want to put Eponine in danger.

Grantaire cut in, his words chosen carefully. “They are well enough, without you.”

“Good. You know, it’s such a shame that they won’t visit their dear Papa. Unfathomable why they won’t provide for Sam and I. We’ve been so kind to them throughout the years. After all we’ve done for them, this is how we’re thanked. My poor wife, wasting away in that prison . . .”

“Truly unfathomable,” Courfeyrac muttered. “Truly.”

Thénardier’s eyebrows lifted at this statement, but he said nothing. “Your next bit of information. Sometimes, people are desperate, and in need of things. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know. There was a need for money, and I had to make ends meet.”

Enjolras was slightly puzzled. This was just disjointed bits of information, and told him nothing! Okay, Mabeuf was nosy, and the Thénardiers were taking whatever jobs they could to get money. And? What did this have to do with the murders or Brujon?

He hated this fact as much as he hated the fact that he had to give information in return.

“Why won't my darling daughters speak to me? At least let me see my sons! It pains me to be separated from my children.” Thénardier seemed like he was on the brink of crying. It disgusted Enjolras that he was trying to manipulate them, and painting his children in a bad light for not talking with the people who messed them up.

“I can’t fathom why they would want to talk to you,” he replied, staring the man in the eye. “From all I’ve heard from your ‘darling daughters,’ you’ve been nothing but horrible to them.”

“Why, I’ve never hit them in their life! Ask Sam, you’ll know that we’ve been good to them their entire lives.”

“Abuse is not always physical. Sometimes there don’t need to be bruises for there to be marks.”

Thénardier huffed but continued on. “Sometimes there are things you need to do that you cannot. You want to, or need to, but they are beyond your control. And I once learned that you must take control of your future, or destiny.” He gave a knowing look at the three of them. “Am I right?”

He wanted to point out that he sounded really pretentious right now (sure, Enjolras could get real pretentious, but this was ridiculous), and that this information wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. Of course one had to be proactive.

“When you need to take control of something, you must turn to the people you trust most to help, or so they say. I am no different. I reached out to a friend of mine, Brujon. He is diligent, and does things without hesitation. I suppose I am grateful for him.” Enjolras snorted. He supposed?

“Now, will my darling Eponine let me see my two youngest sons?”

Courfeyrac, perhaps annoyed by the questions, or wanting to get out of there as soon as possible, let out a noise of frustration. “We just want answers! We don’t want to answer your stupid questions, and we don’t want to hear you bitch about how your children don’t love you, for valid reasons!”

Claquesous growled, while Thénardier narrowed his eyes. “Careful. You’re not in any position to make demands. And do you think I want to answer your questions? It’s only fair to trade information for information.”

“So what about Brujon?”

“Brujon does the job. Sadly, you know the saying, curiosity kills the cat. Alas, every job has its drawbacks. Surely you know.”

Grantaire huffed, while Courfeyrac kept looking towards where they came from. Enjolras couldn’t blame them; he was getting really restless. And the vague answers and cryptic information was not helping. Again, what did Monsieur Mabeuf being nosy, Thénardier being poor, and Brujon being efficient have to do with the murders?

Was he confessing to the murders? Certainly not, right? It would be really stupid to confirm that he ordered the murders or murdered the people himself, even if it was via vague sayings.

Although . . .

“Curiosity kills the cat. You said Mabeuf was nosy, right?”

Grantaire seemed to catch on. “Are you saying Monsieur Mabeuf was killed for being nosy, and seeing or hearing something he shouldn’t have?”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Unless Mabeuf disturbed a fucking headquarters of a busines or something I’m not willing to believe anyone got any kind of payout from this.”

Something clicked in Enjolras’ mind. “Wait a minute. Courf, what you just said.”

“What, payouts?”

“Well, kinda. Someone,” he said, his brain working as he stared at Thénardier, “someone else must’ve asked you to do this.”

Neither Thénardier nor Claquesous said anything, but Enjolras could sense that maybe he screwed up.

He guessed his friends sensed that too, and they tugged at his shoulder. “Maybe we should go,” whispered Courfeyrac, his nervousness showing again.

Enjolras agreed, and as they ran through the darkness, he could hear Thénardier say, “Very clever, Enjolras. Very clever indeed.”

How Thénardier learned his name was probably a question better left unanswered.

~*~

He couldn’t shake the feeling that all three of them were in great danger.

It was Grantaire’s turn to drive, and as they made their way back to campus, he couldn’t help but look behind him to see if anyone from Patron-Minette was following them. Feuilly was right, this was stupid. As much as he hated Feuilly being right in the end (or fighting with Feuilly in any way), he relented in his internal fight. His friend was right, he was wrong, and now . . . he didn’t want to think about it.

Eponine would be so mad when she learned about what happened.

As soon as they got out of the car, Feuilly, Eponine, Montparnasse, and Jehan ran out to greet them. “So?” Feuilly asked. “How’d it go?”

Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to say anything, while Grantaire spoke up. “It went fine until we figured out what that bastard was up to.”

Montparnasse facepalmed, while Jehan clicked their tongue. It was clear from their faces that they thought the trio messed up. Hard.

As he got out of the car, he brought Feuilly and Eponine aside, to tell them what he did.

Feuilly stared at him, seemingly disappointed, while Eponine only said, “You’re fucked.”

He nodded. They were well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah . . . i'm terrible at updating regularly. there won't be any updates this week, i need to catch up.
> 
> i have an excuse: school! that and i procrastinate--a lot. it's honestly a problem i should work on.
> 
> if you want to know about the glitter incident i will gladly write something for that.
> 
> leave comments! they feed my soul.
> 
> follow me on [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/phoen.ixical__/) and [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/andromedaa-starss)! ik i'm not too active on tumblr but i hope to change this


	10. Qu'est-ce que l'amour?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eliza navigates through her feelings for Hamilton

André’s words were still in her mind. _“_ _You are like Psyche, desired by many, yet untouchable. There are many who would say you are merely trying to get others to leave you alone so you don’t have to deal with their advances.”_ Were they true? Were they false? She supposed people might want her, some people. But to compare her to Regina George? Ha! It was always Angelica and Peggy, never her. There was that thing about middle children getting overlooked. Maybe it was just true.

Rarely the problem child, rarely the one to stand out. She did her chores, did her homework, and got good grades. Good enough.

Sometimes she stood out, just a little. But she never wanted to. It was always to the sidelines, always behind the scenes with her. Angelica could have the spotlight. Angelica could have all their schoolmates fawning over her.

So why did André think she would be coveted the same as her sister?

It was absurd to think people whispered behind their hands, trying to find a weak spot in her and Alexander’s relationship so they could slip in. And yet wasn’t there that sister that tried to wingman for her brother? Were people really out to think that she was just trying to keep herself single?

She was with Alexander. She was taken.

Was she though? There was no denying that technically, she was with Alexander Hamilton. Even if it wasn’t very public, people knew. Somewhat. But was there anything between them? Like, feelings?

Love was hard.

~*~

_Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy were staring at the group of boys across the cafeteria._

_“Are you sure he likes you?” Peggy asked._

_“Definitely,” replied Angelica._

_“Everyone likes Angie,” Eliza said matter-of-factly._

_Their friend Kitty rolled her eyes. “At this point I’m sure 80% of the school likes you, Ang.”_

_That probably wasn’t true, but it wasn’t like they could measure the statistics. After all, Albany High was the high school of many, even if it wasn’t as big as say, NYC High. And it wasn’t like there wasn’t anything to back up Kitty’s claim. A lot of students could be seen staring at them. Some even worked up the nerve to ask her out. A lot of boys flirted with her. And some tripped whenever they saw Angelica._

_Angelica was the school beauty. The school star. Witty, beautiful, passionate. Eliza, Peggy, and Kitty stood side by side with her, enhancing her qualities. Side by side is what she always insisted. Not behind. Not below. Side by side. To her, her sisters and friends would always be equals. Anyone saying Eliza and Peggy were only hanging around her because they were her sisters and didn’t have any friends was bound to be berated by her. They were sisters, and they were friends._

_They even had attention of their own. Some asked Peggy out. People flirted with Kitty. Even Eliza, the “quiet” one or the “plain” one, received some of her own admirers._

_It was all a bit relieving, to her. That meant less people hounding her or catching up to ask her out._

_Angelica received no such mercy. Day in and day out, boys and girls alike asked her out, and she denied them all._

_“One day I’ll find someone, but I’ll do it my own way.”_

_Angelica always made her own way. Stubborn, determined, and bold, she turned down everyone, and was either kind or unpleasant about it. Depending on how they asked._

_“Ooh, when do you think he’s gonna ask you out?” Peggy whispered._

_Eliza glanced at the boy in question. He seemed shier than the others around him, and he was occasionally peeking glances at their table. “I’ll bet not for a couple days. Unless he can work up the nerve to get up and come over right now.”_

_“You’re probably right, Betsey.”_

_“As always.”_

_She smiled. One of the perks of being slightly unnoticed (even when you were popular) is that you could look at people from afar, without them ever knowing. And as a kid, when no one noticed her, she’d stare at people passing by, making up stories about them to pass the time._

_It wasn’t too hard to deduce some things. Not like she was Sherlock Holmes, or anything. Just a girl who made stories about people, an unseen girl._

_~*~_

_It wasn’t often that Angelica snapped. But she could, and she did._

_Too many boys. Too many girls. Not enough understanding._

_Eliza only watched and listened as Angelica ranted about how no one respected her decision to say no. She wondered how tiring it must’ve been to tell the same people no over and over again, only to be asked out by them again._

_But she was happy with someone, or moreso content. James. A quiet, shy, country boy who happened to ask her out. She accepted._

_It wasn’t like they really liked each other. The feelings weren’t exactly mutual. But they were happy, and they were stable. As stable as two high schoolers could be. So they stayed together._

_So Eliza listened to Angelica muttering under her breath, and not truly understanding, and only offering her support._

_The game they played was abandoned, and never played again._

_She never envied her sister’s position. No, Angelica sometimes seemed downright miserable with being popular. There wasn’t an outrageous flock of students wanting to date her, but as she described it once, “It feels like all eyes are on me.” She’d even told others that she was dating someone (and said it was from another school) to keep others away._

_Eliza hoped she’d never have to use that trick._

~*~

John laughed, when Eliza went over to his dorm to vent some feelings. “Love is hard, Eliza. I think I’ve learned that the hard way. Feelings and shit complicate things. I’ve sworn off love until I can get my shit sorted out.”

“You can say that again. I can’t even tell if I actually like him.”

“You kissed him. That’s gotta count for something.”

“I kissed James Monroe, but I’m not in love with him.”

“Fair enough. But sometimes there’s those kisses that you just _know_ , y’know?”

She shrugged. “If you say so.” God, all her past relationships were either full of passion or lacked a charge, never anything in between. It was all so complicated. Why couldn’t anything be straightforward for a change?

“I don’t think I’ve ever been with enough people to exactly know. But there were two guys that I think I felt the spark with.” He laughed again, this time bitterly. “Lord knows how many times I miscalculated and broke my heart.”

Eliza rolled her eyes, wondering if this conversation would be any better with alcohol. She didn’t drink much, but sometimes it helped take the edge off. And would it even help? The next morning she’d probably be hungover with Peggy yelling at her for being stupid, so maybe not.

It was tempting though.

She thought back to when Peggy asked her if she’d like to go on a date with a guy. Not thinking any of it, she’d said yes. It was kind of a rinse and repeat with her. Find someone. Try and connect with them. Stay with them in hopes of keeping the boat afloat. Eventually let it sink when it’s clear it will never work out. She thought Alexander was another fling to be added to her memories.

Why then, was she questioning her feelings? Could Alexander truly be the one (whatever the hell that meant)?

A laugh bubbled out of her at that. It was too early to tell. It would only get her hopes up. And hoping was useless when it came to her relationships.

But the kiss, surely that meant something, right? Ugh, that sounded weird. Kisses were kisses.

Maybe she would get that champagne after all.

“Lexi’s a complicated dude,” John said, taking the glass of champagne from Eliza’s hand. “Maybe he likes you, maybe he doesn’t.”

“Hmph,” was her only reply.

“I would know,” he said, staring off wistfully. “Talented, brilliant, but also an asshole.”

Eliza snorted. “Why would I want to date him then?”

“He’s not an asshole most of the time. Just like . . . 20% of the time.”

“Reassuring.”

She sighed, thinking about that kiss. It was something of an impulse, something she’d wanted to do. And it felt fine. Amazing, even. If there was no spark there, would there ever be a spark for her?

_Stop getting your hopes up_. Right. Not right now.

Maybe she’d bring it up when she next saw Alexander. Maybe.

John was still staring into the distance, as if remembering something. “Kissed him. Multiple times too. But he still denied things. Like I said, asshole.”

Eliza was too lost in her own thoughts to understand what Laurens was saying, but she murmured agreement anyways. “Mhm.”

_She’d stared at Alexander, after hearing what he’d said. He was right, it wasn’t “perfect.” She’d nearly fallen off a cliff, tasted terrible food at that restaurant, and been threatened by Brujon. But there were still nice moments. Sure, half of them were interrupted by some unfortunate event or other, but she didn’t really mind._

_“Alex. It’s not your fault for everything. I couldn’t have been happier with how today went.” That was true. Even if it wasn’t the best day ever, it would be a great story for later. If later ever happened._

_“Butbutbut--what about the restaurant? And the cliffside? And Brujon? It all went wrong and--”_

_Eliza waved him off. Who cared?_ He tried _, she thought._ I think that’s what counts the most. That he tried for me. For my sake. _“_ _It’s not your fault. You were very sweet and thoughtful, and although today wasn’t perfect, I loved spending time with you. You tried very hard to make it a perfect day, and for me, the thought is all that counts.”_

_And then, out of impulse or love or something else, she reached over to kiss him. A light peck on the lips. That’s all. She was as surprised as Alexander looked, as they both looked at each other._

_Then they kissed again. Both of them._

She sighed, thinking back on that. Their first kiss together.

The thoughts were creeping back in again. Another glass of champagne to drown out the thoughts.

John was right. Love was hard.

A sullen laugh escaped her lips as she thought about the kiss and love and Alexander Hamilton, the one who made her question everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH SORRY FOR MAKING YOU GUYS WAIT SO LONG
> 
> this will be coming out every other wednesday instead of every wednesday bc _school_
> 
> check out my [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/phoen.ixical__/) and [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/andromedaa-starss)!


	11. En famille, tu es aimé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marius has fun with friends--and learns to create his own family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well it's been a hot minute--over a month actually! i'm very sorry, school has been catching up to me, and not in a fun way. i really hope to actually stick to a schedule but honestly? no promises. anyways, stay safe and don't be stupid!
> 
> EDIT: thank you for >400 hits! it means a lot that people are actually looking a the things i write ahahaha. feedback and comments are also appreciated.
> 
> trigger warnings: transphobia, deadnaming, misgendering, and child abuse (both physical and emotional). starts at "Marius was feeling the tears well up again as he recalled his grandfather’s words" and ends at "Courfeyrac was staring at him"

“Your dorm’s a mess,” Eponine said as she plopped herself on a couch in the middle of the living space.

“That’s Courfeyrac’s fault,” Marius said, not looking up from where he was sitting. Courfeyrac let out a gasp of mock outrage but didn’t say anything.

“Of course, of course, Courfeyrac’s a slob.”

“I take great offense to this.”

Marius eyed his friend and roommate, whom he had gotten to know very well over the weeks. “She’s not lying, you’ve even managed to trash Enjolras and Feuilly’s dorm.” That was an incident he’d rather forget, involving alcohol, a ceiling fan, and glitter. Lots of glitter.

Eponine shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

“I have my ways,” Courfeyrac said.

Marius laughed a little before turning back to his book that he was reading up on for one of his classes. He toned out the voices of Eponine and Courfeyrac, continuing to bicker. Life was fun with the both of them, though it seemed like sometimes he was a third wheel of sorts (in friendship of course) because they had gotten to know each other very well, while Marius was still in France. He definitely had a lot of catching up to do.

“Marius! Is a hot dog a sandwich?”

He looked up from his book, interrupted once more by his childhood friend and his roommate. “Really? That’s what you’re arguing over?”

“You can’t say anything, you were arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza!” Eponine said.

“It does!”

Courfeyrac scowled. “It does not! That’s a disgusting combo!”

“I suppose you say that mayonnaise is gross as well.”

A pillow was flung at him--where did Courfeyrac get a pillow?--and he swerved, yet the pillow still hit him somewhat. He glared at Courfeyrac, who stuck his tongue out at him.

Eponine cleared her throat. “You still haven’t given an answer yet.”

“It’s not a sandwich. A sandwich is surrounded by carbs on only two sides, usually parallel to each other. A hot dog is surrounded by carbs on three sides, which technically means it’s a taco.” With that, he returned to his book, hoping the debate was settled. Sure, the reading wasn’t due until a few days later, but he wanted to be punctual, and not pull an all nighter reading it. (Not like he ever did.)

His roommate snorted. “And what if a hot dog is surrounded by carbs on two sides?”

“That means you’ve broken the bun, not that it’s suddenly a sandwich.”

“Would you count an ice cream sandwich as a sandwich?”

“Of course! It follows the rule, plus  _ it’s literally in the name _ . Now would you please leave me alone so I can finish this?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “If you insist.”

Marius sighed. It wasn’t like he hated Courfeyrac or living with him. No, in most cases it was actually quite fun. He couldn’t deny that his friend tended to be a bit rambunctious, impulsive, and very loud, but life would be boring without him. And Courfeyrac was a good friend by all standards. He was friendly. He helped Marius with certain things. He was never purposely condescending, and he tried to take others’ feelings into consideration. Courfeyrac made life . . . fun in a way. However, he could also make life incredibly irritating. Today was probably one of those irritating days, though Marius could have also been somewhat irritated. He never knew which one it was. Both?

Mercifully, he finished reading without much fanfare. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, as reading was wont to make him do. His friends turned to him as he let out a loud groan. “Finally, he finishes!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. Although Marius was not free of his irrational annoyance, he gave his friend a smile.

“Well, I am free for the rest of the day, so I suppose we could do something.”

“We could always have a threesome.”

“Courfeyrac.”

“Or watch someone’s sex tape.”

“Courfeyrac!” The annoyance was creeping back in.

“You know I’m kidding.”

Marius rolled his eyes. Sometimes it was best to get suggestions from someone other than Courfeyrac.

“I am willing to take you up on that threesome though.”

“George Felix Courfeyrac--”

“Okay, okay,” he said, with a mischievous wink.

Eponine was watching the both of them with--was that a blush? Marius set that aside for now. “Anyways, can we do something that isn’t sex-related?”

“Does make--”

“Forget what I said, can we do something that is not suggested by Courfeyrac?”

Eponine snorted. “You do realize this is only fueling him, right?”

Marius scowled. “Point taken, but I am not in the mood for any of  _ that _ .”

“Pity. We’ll make a college student out of you yet,” Courfeyrac said, yawning.

“Y’know, I thought university was supposed to be for learning, not . . . the other stuff.”

His friends laughed at his choice of words. “It’s okay, Marius, you can say ‘sex.’”

He felt warmth creep up to his ears as he stared at them. He wasn’t exactly a prude, but he wasn’t also very comfortable with that subject. Yes, he had made out with a couple people in high school. Yes, he was close to pulling his pants down for someone. But he never had, mostly because . . . there was something about it? He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but even saying it aloud made him feel . . . dirty.

Eponine, possibly sensing his slight discomfort, mercifully changed the subject. “Well, there’s always the theatre.”

“Nin, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re broke college students,” Courfeyrac said, spreading his hands. “The whole of  _ Les Amis  _ has to chip in if we want to go to the theatre.”

She scoffed. “Well, excuse me if I haven’t experienced the joys of college life.”

Marius perked up. “Speaking of which, have you been able to get financial aid?”

“No, they rejected it, probably something to do with my family and such.”

Courfeyrac scowled. “Assholes.”

“I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He leaned back on the couch. “It’s not your fault your parents are despicable, greedy, evil, heartless, terrible--”

Marius cut him off. “We get it, Courf.”

“I was just saying!”

She laughed without humor. “You’re right, but they don’t see it that way. To them, I’ll always be Eponine Thénardier, bastard child of Lucas and Samantha Thénardier, and criminal mastermind. Once a thief, always a thief, they say.” Another humorless laugh. “Maybe they’re right.”

“No.” Marius stood up, and began pacing. “No, Eponine, they’re not. They don’t know anything about you. Maybe you were a criminal once, but that was because your parents forced you to. You didn’t know any better. And now they are barring you for your parents’ crime, which is very unfair, because you are not your parents, ‘Ponine. Your name should not be tainted just because of your parents. What the universities and the government don’t know, is that you are a wonderful person. You are kind and loyal and determined and hardworking and most of all you are uniquely Eponine.” He suddenly realized what he was doing and sat back down, feeling heat rising to his cheeks. “Uh . . .”

Eponine reached over and gave him a sort of tackle-hug. “Oh, Marius. You don’t know how much that means to me. Thank you.”

“Nicely put, Marius. Nicely put,” added Courfeyrac, who for once was not making a teasing remark. “Y’know, Enj would be proud.”

He shook his head. “I dunno about that.”

“Oh come now, must we give the great and wonderful Marius Pontmercy a cheering up speech too?”

Marius’ blush deepened. “Courf . . .” he mumbled.

His two friends laughed and hugged him, and he smiled. “I mean, you could give that speech if you wanted to . . .”

“Your wish is my command.”

~*~

Marius leaned against the couch with his laptop, Courfeyrac on his right, Eponine on his left. He’d dragged them on for his meeting with his friends, mostly because they were curious, but also because Marius wanted to show his friends that he actually did have a social life in America, thank you very much.

“Ah, Marius, I see you have some new faces for us to meet!” Gilbert said, grinning.

“Yep. Where are your friends?”

“Unfortunately, I have not been able to drag them on yet. I do have time to convince them, though.”

He laughed a little. “Then do.”

“While we are waiting for our other friend to pop up, who are these lovely friends of yours?”

He pointed to Courfeyrac. “Uh, that’s Courf, that’s ‘Ponine.”

Courfeyrac tsked a bit. “C’mon Marius, is that how you introduce friends?” He slung an arm around Marius, who jerked a bit from the touch. “My name, dear friend of Marius Pontmercy here, is George Felix Courfeyrac.”

“And my name’s Eponine,” Eponine added.

Gilbert laughed. “Well, Marius, your friends are quite interesting.”

Marius blushed a bit. “Thanks. When did Raoul say he’d be coming on?”

“Around 11 pm his time.”

“Jeez, he doesn’t need to stay up so late for us.”

“Says the college student pulling all-nighters.”

He rolled his eyes. “Gil, you’re also a college student.”

“Yes, but I am not pulling all-nighters, am I?”

Marius shook his head, before turning to his friend. “Courf, back me up.”

His friend laughed. “Marius, how many times have I caught you up at 3 am, trying desperately to get in some last minute reading?”

“And how many times have I caught  _ you  _ up at night?”

Gilbert chuckled as they continued to banter, before turning to Eponine. “How is your sleep schedule? Better than the rest of ours, I hope.”

She snorted. “Not doing well, even without school. I have so much work to do, plus picking up my siblings from school.”

“You do not go to college?”

“I don’t have enough money, plus they won’t give me any financial aid.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. Be right back, I need to pee.” With that, she stood up and walked towards the bathroom.

When she was gone, Gilbert frowned and looked at Marius. “Do you know about this?”

“Yeah. It’s been . . . it’s been on my mind.”

In truth it was probably one of the only things he thought about ever since Eponine brought it up to him. How unfair it seemed, to exclude someone from an education simply because their parents were criminals! And truth be told he didn’t know how to go about even solving the problem. (Marius would’ve done well to consider if Eponine wanted a solution to this in the first place, but alas, he did not.) Could he just give her a sum of his money? Well, he wasn’t exactly rich anymore. He’d spent almost all his savings just on college and travel, and even had to steal some of his grandfather’s just to make sure he didn’t run out. (Monsieur Gillenormand says “steal.” Marius likes to think of it as borrowing without paying it back.) No doubt his grandfather would just refuse to give him any more money after that.

In truth, Marius was also literally disowned, so that might also be a hindrance to his problem.

“Have you not considered giving any money to her?”

“Gil, I spent so much of my savings on college. I even took some of my grandfather’s.”

Courfeyrac stared blankly at Marius. “Aren’t you rich?”

“Not since . . . not since my grandfather disowned me.”

“Oh jeez, I’m sorry.”

“Eh.” It had been two years since he was formally disowned. He didn’t really like to talk about it. “It’s fine.”

Gilbert shook his head. “Marius, it is not fine.”

“I’ve gotten kinda used to it, to be honest. The like, ‘failed grandson,’ or whatever.”

“Marius--”

“Please just. J-Just drop it.”

His friend glared at him, and though his face was on a computer screen and he himself was on the other side of the country, Marius could feel the gaze on him, and he shrank a little bit. He knew Gilbert was right, that it wasn’t his fault that his grandfather disowned him, but a part of him couldn’t help believing that there was something fundamentally wrong with  _ him _ , that it was all his fault and that he just needed to try a bit harder.

“Marius.” He looked up. Gilbert’s gaze had softened. “I am sorry for pushing you. You can tell me in your own time.”

He nodded, smiling a bit. “Thank you.”

They sat around, not knowing what else to say, waiting for their other friend to come on. Marius had never been good at small talk, and whenever he spoke, it usually ended in disaster unless he was with friends. Truth be told, he wasn’t very good with words even around friends. Well, he supposed he had to say something. “Er, about the college thing . . .”

“Right, so since you cannot pay for her--”

“Whoa whoa whoa. Maybe we should, y’know, ask Eponine?” Courfeyrac interrupted, waving his hands. “After all, it’s her education.”

Gilbert’s eyes widened. “I did not think of that. You should ask her, Marius.”

Marius shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s like. What if something goes wrong? Like, what if it becomes weird between us? Or w-what if she’s like, mean in a weird way, or what if she refuses? Or--”

“Marius.” Courfeyrac’s hand was on his shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll accept the help. And if she doesn’t, she doesn’t. I don’t think your relationship will sour. If you want, I’ll be there.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I just want to help her. She’s my  _ friend _ .”

“Help who?” a voice called. The three of them startled, before Marius and Courfeyrac turned to see who it was. Eponine had returned from the bathroom, and was standing there, bewildered. “Did I miss something?”

“ . . . no,” all three of them said, not looking at each other. She didn’t seem convinced, but sat down besides Marius. They sat in silence while waiting for Raoul to come on.

Ah, Raoul. He was seven years older than Marius, and they had met via their parents. Well, via his parents. Marius was living with his grandfather at the time. He was dignified and serious, but was always willing to help either Marius or Gilbert with any of their schoolwork. Over the years, it had sort of grown into an older brother/younger brother dynamic, but nevertheless Marius was still glad to meet with him.

At last, a new face popped up on his screen. Well, two new faces. One was Raoul, the other, he presumed, must be Christine. One might call her gorgeous, with her soft brown curls and her startling blue eyes. There was an easygoing grace about her, as if she could simply float and anyone around her would accept it, for it only seemed natural. Yet when she spoke, it was firm and cheerful, not whimsical like one would expect.

“Hello, it’s so nice to finally meet all of you. Raoul’s told me so much about you guys . . . well, you two anyways,” she said, pointing to what Marius presumed to be himself and Gilbert. “I didn’t realize one of you would be bringing guests.

“It’s not too late to drag your friends on,” Courfeyrac said, winking at Gilbert, who merely rolled his eyes.

Marius smiled, before pointing at his friends. “This is Eponine, this is George Courfeyrac.”

“Call me Courf,” Courfeyrac said, slinging an arm around his friend.

“Alright then!” Marius listened to the rest of them yammer on about school, or their interests, or something. He didn’t make an effort to insert himself into the conversation, it rarely ever worked. Besides, he’d just make a fool of himself. Instead he fiddled with his hair, and thought about 

“ . . . so what about you, Marius?”

“Huh?” He startled a bit.

“Who’s your celebrity crush?” asked Christine.

“Uh-uh, I, I don’t know,” he responded, panicking a bit. It wasn’t like he watched TV or movies looking to fall in love with someone, or develop a “crush” on them.

“That’s okay, my good friend,” Courfeyrac said, his hand not having moved from where it was. “I can do enough talking about  _ my  _ celebrity crush for the both of us. You see . . .” To which both Marius and Eponine groaned. (Good-naturedly, of course). Courfeyrac had a tendency to ramble about things he was quite passionate about, including his celebrity crush, his favorite hobby (pyrotechnics), and also why the  _ The Last Airbender  _ (the live action one) was the worst thing to be created by mankind.

_ “C’mon Courf, it can’t be that bad,” Marius had said, waving his hands around. _

_ Courfeyrac flapped his hands, pacing back and forth. “You don’t understand!  _ The Last Airbender  _ is terrible not just because it doesn’t stick to its original source, it also deprives characters of their story. And it also whitewashes the main cast, which is bad because that takes away the few representation East Asians and Indigenous people have! Plus the editing is really shitty and also it’s just terrible overall, c’mon Marius you gotta believe me.” _

Marius’ shrug and his reply that he’d have to see for himself was how they had ended up inviting everyone over for a group roasting of  _ The Last Airbender _ . It was particularly enjoyable, especially when Eponine leaned in to read what was supposed to be Chinese (yet clearly not).

_ “What the hell does that say? It’s just scribbles!” she exclaimed. _

_ Gavroche snickered. “My handwriting is better than that, and my Chinese teacher says I’ve got the messiest handwriting she’s ever seen.” _

_ Upon further inspection Eponine declared that it wasn’t even Chinese. “Well, that’s a fucking disappointment. Didn’t the original cartoon have actual Chinese words?” _

Marius’ favorite scene was the one at the earthbending prison. The slow fire, the dance routine, the  _ pebble  _ being launched across the sky. Hilarious. He also enjoyed when Bossuet frowned and asked, “Why does Fire Lord Ozai look like Julius Caesar?”, prompting everyone to howl with laughter.

He was so far absorbed into his thoughts that he didn’t realize Courfeyrac had gone on for a while about his celebrity crush. Eponine poked him to get him to shut up. “Ai yo, Courf, you’re just as bad as Capital R!”

“I am not! You wound me,  _ mademoiselle _ !”

The doe-eyed brunette gave his friend a side eye. “I mean, she’s got a point.”

“Not my roommate as well!”

“It’s the truth, Courf, just accept it,” Eponine said, laughing.

Courfeyrac shook his head. "You guys are impossible."

They continued talking, until Gilbert brought up Mr. Y.

“You never really elaborated on him, Raoul. Why is that?”

“Because it is not my story to tell,” the blonde replied. “It’s Christine’s.”

Christine, for the first time, seemed a bit scared, or haunted. “Kind of a long story,” she muttered.

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Courfeyrac offered.

“No, no, I can do this.” She took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, my father told me I would be sent an angel of music when he died. And I was hopeful. After he died, I began searching for signs that my angel was sent. I thought he came to me one night in the Paris Opera House, where I was a ballet girl. He came through the mirror, though I never saw him. From there, he began to give me singing lessons.”

Marius listened, slightly interested in this. He wasn’t too interested in most horror stories, or whatever, but this could hold his attention well enough. Christine continued on about how this man lured her to the basement of the Paris Opera House, professing his love for her.

“But by then I had fallen in love with Raoul. I couldn’t love him back. So he vowed to destroy everything I loved.”

He cocked his head, fiddling around with his fingers a bit, absorbing some of the details. Weird hijinks, stagehand murders, and the chandelier falling. Then Christine was kidnapped, almost forced to wed the strange Opera Ghost (as he was known), before a kiss saved both Christine and Raoul (who was basically suffocating via a noose). It sounded very much like a generic “true love’s kiss” with a twist to Marius. There were also things that fascinated him very much. The underwater lake. The boat. Even the bot. (His brain tuned out most things about the bot, because he thought he heard sexbot and he nearly shut off from this.) Huh. This reminded him of a book he’d read a long time ago. What was it called?

His thoughts drifted once more to Eponine and her situation. Would he really ask her if she needed help. It seemed weird. His hands fidgeted. He picked at a piece of skin around his nails, while somewhat looking at his computer screen. Christine finished her story, and he finally looked up a bit more.

“Hellooo?” Courfeyrac said, poking his friend’s side. “Earth to Marius!”

He glared at Courfeyrac. “What?”

“You seemed a bit distracted,” Christine added.

Marius only shrugged. “Not really.”

Eponine, Gilbert, and Raoul seemed unconcerned. “He does this a lot. He’ll zone out and you think he’s not paying attention when really he’s got most of what you said, and more,” Eponine said.

“Yeah,” he replied, staring at the computer screen. “Angel of music. Opera Ghost. Creepy basement with creepy sewer dweller. Stagehand murder. The chandelier fell. And then you were kidnapped, almost forced to wed Mr. Opera Ghost, then you were saved with a kiss. Or he let you go because of a kiss, I’m not quite sure.”

Christine nodded, impressed. “Nice. Although, Erik let me go because he’d never been kissed by anyone before, not even his parents. So when I did, it moved him enough and . . .”

“Erik?”

“Oh . . . that’s the Opera Ghost’s name.”

Raoul’s eyes widened. “You’ve never said that before!”

She shook her head. “He only told me it once, and then I forgot.”

Courfeyrac then frowned. “Wait, what does this have to do with . . . anything?”

“Well,” Gilbert began, “there was a murder over here, in New York City. And there was a suspect who only went by the name of Mr. Y.”

“So you think this Mr. Y dude’s the murderer, or whatever?”

“Perhaps.”

“Mr. Y was an alias Erik used after he left Paris,” Christine added.

Marius didn’t respond to any of this, just leaned back and began thinking. Thinking about Eponine, and what he would do about that (if he would do anything at all). Thinking about his relationship with his grandfather. Thinking about himself. Thinking about Erik. Thinking about Christine. Thinking about the murder in New York and about the one in California, Monsieur Mabeuf’s murder, Monsieur Mabeuf, who he had known but whose death he hadn’t quite processed. Monsieur Mabeuf, who said he’d known his dad and--

It was all a bit too much, really.

He placed the laptop on Courfeyrac’s lap and stood up. “I’m gonna go take a quick walk.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t like he was gonna go for a job around campus. No, he was going to go to the rooftop.

Marius opened the door, pocketed the keys. His feet took him across the hallways, into the elevator, up the stairs. Climbing and climbing and climbing, until he opened another door and felt the fresh October breeze on his face. The rooftop, one of the few places where he could think and not get overwhelmed. It was probably the breeze, which is why the evening worked so well. (How was it evening already? It was 2 pm just a couple minutes earlier . . .) He sat at the edge and began his thinking anew.

Firstly, Eponine. What was he to do? Ask her? Oh, Courfeyrac said nothing would happen but he just couldn’t stop thinking about everything that might go wrong. And he couldn’t put it into words but it was just  _ something _ . His friend was right too, what if she didn’t want it and it only made her mad? He supposed the only course of action would be to actually ask Eponine, regardless of his fears. Marius bit his lip. Oh, he hated asking weird things, or things he perceived as weird.

Next, Monsieur Mabeuf. Was it odd that he couldn’t bring the tears when he heard of the old man’s death? They hadn’t been close, but Mabeuf had offered to show him across the city, plus, he’d helped Marius get back in contact with his father. And for that, Marius was eternally grateful. So why didn’t anything stir in him when the news of his death reached him? Huh. But it was sad, because Monsieur Mabeuf was kind, and wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was studious, and saw life around him. Marius knew all this, from the few times they had met. He remembered, and smiled, for even though Mabeuf was gone, Marius could still remember his words, his strong hands, and his firm beliefs. The tear was on the edge of his eye, but suddenly he wasn’t quite as empty, or sad. Maybe all Marius had to do was remember him in his own way. A laugh escaped him. How philosophical he was becoming!

He could think about Christine and Raoul and Erik later. That wasn’t too important. Besides, he thought, amused, the sexbot was something he did  _ not  _ want to ponder. (If he even heard it correctly. He hoped he didn’t. God, he hoped he heard something else.)

Then there was Grandfather. A scowl formed on his face, when he thought of the elderly Gillenormand. Could he be nice? Yes, but he wasn’t about to praise him for his kindness or whatnot. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand (what a silly name, thought Marius) was stout, strict, and stubborn. He was a staunch monarchist, though by this point the monarchy was long dead, and argued often with Marius’ father. Hell, Marius and his father were prevented from seeing each other until a little while ago. That was when Marius was disowned, and he was free to pursue a relationship with the father he’d never known. Georges Pontmercy was kinder, sweeter, and more understanding (even though it would take a while before Marius could ever call him “Dad” or “Papa” or fully confide in him). There was also the point that Marius couldn’t quite let go--something that Grandfather never fully understood.

It hurt a bit too much for Marius to think about. At least his father understood, if not fully. To him, Marius was Marius, and Marius was his son. His son, who’d inherited his boyish charm and stutter and reddish-brown hair. Not anyone else.

Marius was feeling the tears well up again as he recalled his grandfather’s words.

_ “Enough with this nonsense! You are my granddaughter!” _

_ “Marie Jeanne Gillenormand! What have you done with your hair?” _

A soft, miserable laugh came out of him as the tears started dripping on his shirt. And then he spat out. Where the spit landed, he didn’t care. He cursed Grandfather, out loud, inside his mind, he didn’t matter, but he felt bad. That was his grandfather.  _ Grandfather didn’t do anything for you _ , a part of his brain said. That much was true. His father understood more of Marius than Grandfather ever would.

Georges Pontmercy greeted him jovially when Marius introduced himself as his son. He didn’t flinch, didn’t question anything. Instead, he embraced him fully and sobbed onto his shoulder, saying “My son,” and taking a good look at him and telling him that he’d grown so much. Nothing about how he “was a girl before.” Nothing about how “it was impossible.” No, instead, his father accepted him as he was. Marius was grateful for that.

He thought back to when he first understood that he was a boy. It just . . . seemed better? And Cosette and Azelma and Eponine understood. Nicolette understood when he first stood in front of her and stammered that maybe he was a boy. So why couldn’t Grandfather, when Marius finally understood what he was, and tried to tell him. ( _ How foolish _ , he’d thought back then.  _ Why did you tell him? Why couldn’t you shut up? _ ) It ended with yelling, a severe punishment, and Marius curled up into a ball while Nicolette had to tend to him, as he dug into his arms.

The pain . . . the pain of the belt came back to him. Fresh tears came, and he wiped them away. But the pain still haunted him, and it still scared him whenever Enjolras raised his voice in passion. He picked at his arms once more, doing nothing to stem the flow of tears that were pouring down his face. So it would be one of those days, where he remembered how miserable he was under Grandfather’s care. Maman wouldn’t have let him get hurt. Maman would make sure her little boy would’ve been taken care of.

And with the words came the thoughts: if only he was perfect. Why else would he have been so wrongly treated? It had taken him so long just to shake those thoughts off, yet they were coming back. He tried to remember his father’s words instead:  _ “You are enough for me. You are perfect in my eyes.”  _ Marius shut his eyes and tried to think of something better.

The click of the rooftop door didn’t even reach Marius’ ears, but Courfeyrac’s concerned voice did. “Hey, I thought you might be up here, you’ve been gone for a hot minute, Nin’s timed it you’ve been gone for like, half an hour, and you said it was a quick walk, so I was wondering if--hey, are you okay?”

“No,” came Marius’ muffled voice.

“You’re crying,” his friend pointed out, which was so very obvious.

“Mm.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, I’ll just be here if you need it, okay?”

Marius nodded, and curled back up into his ball, trying to block out the thoughts. He came up here to think, but the thinking only made it worse. He knew he shouldn’t have thought even a single thought about Grandfather, because then it would spiral into  _ this  _ and leave him a sobbing mess. And then it became even worse, because he could hear the words, the taunting words of “man up” and “stop crying” and it still made him cry, because it was accompanied by hitting and screaming and oh, Marius hated when he was a teenager so much. He loved the house, he loved Aunt, he loved Nicolette, and he tried to love Grandfather (if love meant live up to his expectations and the obedient little child he tried to be), but why did Grandfather make him so miserable? Another sob escaped him, and he was leaning on Courfeyrac, sobs wracking his body, and Courfeyrac was there, just murmuring soft words, rubbing his back, and holding him. The words “why” and “why won’t he call me Marius, why Marie” left his mouth before he could even think about it, because he was crying and there was no filter when he was crying.

“Hey, shh, shh, don’t worry,” Courfeyrac murmured, hugging him. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Slowly, Marius calmed down. Slowly, Courfeyrac’s hands and words helped him return. Slowly, all the “I’m here’s” and “The tears stopped, the thoughts stopped swirling around in his head. They still hurt, but the presence of Courfeyrac made them fade into the distance, at least for a while.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his throat sore from all the crying.

“No problem,” Courfeyrac replied, grinning. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Y-Yeah.” Friends. Courfeyrac was his friend, just like Eponine was. The thought made him smile.

And once more, he scowled at the thought of Grandfather, whom he now hated more than anything, if he could make Marius feel this way. It wasn’t sadness that fueled his sobbing (maybe a bit), but anger. Anger that Grandfather wouldn’t listen, anger that Grandfather had been so mean, so terrifying.  _ I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him, I hate it when he calls me Marie, I hate it when he yells at me, I hate it when I have to stand up straight just for him so he’ll be nice to me, I hate it when he reminds me that he took me in and-- _

Courfeyrac was staring at him. Oh no, did he just say those things out loud? “Marius . . .”

“Don’t.” He didn’t want pity, he didn’t want to be reminded of his grandfather tonight. Or any night. Tonight should’ve been to let his thoughts out, so he could relax and enjoy a night with friends. But he had to ruin it all. Why couldn’t this be let go?

“Marius, your grandfather sounds like an asshole.”

“Uh . . .”

“Actually, no, I’m going to say it out loud. He is an asshole. Good riddance.”

“B-But.” He took a deep breath. “He’s still my grandfather.”

Courfeyrac laughed before slinging an arm around Marius. “Monsieur Pontillac,  _ mon ami _ , family is what you make it to be. If your birth relatives are assholes, so be it! You can always ditch them, and find a new family.”

“If you say so . . .”

“Trust me, Marius. Clinging onto toxic relationships will never be worth it. Take it from me.”

He nodded. “O-Okay.”

“Now is there anything else you’d like to spill to your dear roommate? I promise I won’t tell.” His fingers traced across his lips, as if he were zipping it up.

What would he say? What could he say? Was he about to spill more secrets about his family life. He instead opted for something maybe a bit safer, hopefully a bit safer. “Will you still call me Marius?”

“Why wouldn’t I? That’s your name.”

“But--”  _ But you heard me . . . I accidentally said . . . _

His friend tilted his chin up so they were looking directly at each other. “Marius Pontmercy, I will call you by the name you have introduced yourself as, because that is your name. You are Marius, and always have been.”

Those words were oddly comforting to him. “Thank you. I-I needed to hear that.”

“No problem.” Courfeyrac leaned back. “You wanna stay out here, watch the sun set?”

“Well, it’s already gone down that far.”

“Eh, I’m sure we can spare a couple minutes.”

Their couple minutes were cut short by Eponine bursting through the rooftop door and worrying over them. “Where were you guys? It’s been like, an hour!”

Marius chuckled a little, while Courfeyrac invited her to sit down and join them on the rooftop edge, where time slowed down and the last rays of the sun washed over them as it sank down beneath the hills. Where Marius felt safe, with friends, and where he felt like he could be open. Where Courfeyrac told him he was Marius, where Eponine slung her arm around him and told him he needed to stop disappearing like that, and where they all sat on the edge, making a wish on the sunset because Marius wanted to even though that technically wasn’t a thing.

His roommate might’ve been right. Family is what he made it. Slowly, the idea of making a new family of his own appealed to him, more and more. Even though it weighed heavily on him to push aside his grandfather (no, Luc-Esprit Gillenormand), it may have been for the best. Besides, his friends were right there: Courfeyrac, always eager, always hyper, and Eponine, ever strong, ever persistent. Inside, his longtime childhood friends were also waiting for him: Gilbert, witty and cheerful, and Raoul, serious and kind. What more could he ask for? He leaned into his friends’ touch and sighed, content.

The rooftop truly was special to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was an excuse to have courfeyrac/marius/eponine banter and i am Here For It. it was also an excuse to bash my most hated movie, the last airbender. aka the movie that shall not be named.
> 
> eponine's chinese, as are her siblings.
> 
> i have no idea how to define "ai yo" it's just an expression i guess.
> 
> i just ripped poto's story for this lol. also the sexbot--i don't even know what to say about it. it's a trip and a half.
> 
> yes marius is trans, if i've done something wrong feel free to let me know.
> 
> sometimes, marius just needs a hug. he's learning to let go of toxic family members he just needs some time. also: found family found family! i am so fond of the found family trope i can't even--


	12. important announcement

okay. so. i'm not really happy with this story, or the direction it's headed. i'm gonna try and revamp it. i know that's setting the story back a lot, but i'm just not happy with it. it's probably gonna turn into more of a daily life thing? idk, but that's what i want the story to be. not this weird convuluted plot thing.

hell, maybe i'll keep the overall gist of things, but i still need to work out some plot things. i'm also really busy, so this will probably pick up after next week.

again i'm sorry. i hope you'll keep reading. <3


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